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THE POETICAL WORKS OF 
ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 



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The POETICAL WORKS of 

ROSE HARTWICK 

THORPE 

COMPILED BY THE AUTHOR 




NEW YORK 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1912 



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Copyright, 1912, by 
The Neale Publishing Company 



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TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BALLADS 9 

Curfew Must Not Ring To-night ii 

The Station Agent's Story 14 

In a Mining Town 18 

Saved and Savior 20 

The Soldier's Reprieve 23 

His Christmas Gift .25 

Margaret 29 

The Bridge of San Martin 31 

Down the Track 33 

Remember the Alamo 34 

The Hero of Conemaugh 40 

In Answer 41 

Inspiration 43 

Cain 45 

The Emperor's Ring 47 

The Queen and the Beggar's Child 48 

Drifted Out to Sea 49 

The Luck of Muncaster 51 

A Brave Emperor 54 

When the Christ-Child Came 55 

Their Thanksgiving Day 56 

Under the Curfew Bell 58 

The Feast of Cherries 60 

SHORTER POEMS 63 

Life 65 

Whom Others Envy 65 

Affliction's Need 66 

The Germ of Life 66 

If We Knew 67 

The Perfect Test 67 

How to be Happy 68 

Mother of Mine 69 

Forgetting 69 

Easter Bells 70 

Life's Peaceful Twilight 70 

The Two Kings 71 

His Second Coming 72 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Wrecked 73 

Who Can Tell? 74 

Nothing Lost 74 

The Test of Age 75 

The Bells of Life 76 

Song of the Thankful Time 'jy 

The Birds Thanksgiving 78 

Drifting Away 79 

October 80 

How the Flowers Came 80 

A Better Toy . 81 

God's Way is Best 82 

Thanksgiving 83 

Where is Heaven? 84 

Two Days 84 

Woman's Life 85 

A Time of Peace 85 

Love Triumphs 86 

The Sweetest Flower 86 

An Open Secret 87 

Deeds are Thoughts 88 

A Noble Warrior . . 88 

Thoughts 88 

A Mother's Wish 89 

Among Her Flowers 89 

Keep the Heart Young 90 

Easter Lines 91 

The Greatest Good 91 

Who Knows? 92 

The Betrothal 92 

Lilies of Faith 93 

Her First Long Dress 94 

Tourists 94 

Love's Avowal 95 

The Sweet Old Story 96 

Assurance 96 

Nepenthe 97 

Linnet 97 

A City Cafion 98 

A Toast 98 

Beauty . 98 

Truth in Fiction 99 

Woman lOO 

Labor Versus Capital loi 

No Perfect Work but God's 102 

Truth 103 

Progress 103 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 9 

PAGE 

Dreams 104 

Why? 105 

Rio Grande 105 

The Last Night 106 

California 107 

San Diego 108 

La Jolla 108 

The California Poppy 109 

Sunset on the Pacific Coast 109 

A Prophecy no 

A Prayer 112 

RHYMES FOR THE CHILDREN 113 

The Queen's Gift IIS 

Cripple Joe 117 

What Santa Claus Brought 119 

The Christmas Doll 120 

Four Little Girls 121 

Little Bird Gray 122 

Where They Found Him 123 

What Cured Dolly 124 

Mamma's Helpers 125 

Contented Ted 126 

February in California 127 

Mud Pies 128 

When I am a Man 128 

Two Bens 130 

A Kiss for Mamma 131 

Mamma's Bread Winners 131 

Two Little Beggars 132 

Putting the Flowers to Bed 133 

A Song of the Schoolroom 134 

The Drink of God 134 

The Disobedient Doll 135 

Indian Lullaby 135 

A Lullaby Song 136 

The White Parade 137 



CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT 

pNGLAND'S sun was slowly setting o'er the hill- 

tops far away, 
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad 

day; 
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and 

maiden fair, — 
He with footsteps slow and weary; she with sunny, 

floating hair; 
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful ; she with lips 

so cold and white. 
Struggled to keep back the murmur, " Curfew must 

not ring to-night." 



" Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the 

prison old. 
With its walls so tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls 

dark, damp and cold, — 
" I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night 

to die 
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is 

nigh. 
Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and her lips 

grew strangely white. 
As she spoke in husky whispers, " Curfew must not 

ring to-night." 

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced 

her young heart 
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly 

poisoned dart). 
" Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that 

gloomy shadowed tower ; 



12 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight 

hour. 
I have done my duty ever, with a purpose just and 

right. 
Now I'm old I will not miss it. Curfew bell must 

ring to-night ! " 

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white 

her thoughtful brow; 
And within her heart's deep center Bessie made a 

solemn vow. 
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear 

or sigh, — 
"At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood must 

die." 
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes 

grew large and bright; 
One low murmur, faintly spoken, " Curfew must not 

ring to-night ! " 

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within 

the old church-door, 
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft 

before. 
Not one moment paused the maiden, but, with cheek 

and brow aglow, 
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung 

to and fro ; 
As she climbed the slimy ladder, on which fell no ray 

of light, 
Upward still, her lips repeating, " Curfew shall not 

ring to-night ! " 

She has reached the topmost ladder; o'er her hangs 

the great, dark bell; 
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down 

to hell. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 13 

See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour 

of curfew now, 
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, 

and paled her brow. 
Shall she let it ring? No, never ! Her eyes flash with 

sudden light. 
As she springs, and grasps it firmly : " Curfew shall 

not ring to-night ! " 

Out she swung, — far out. The city seemed a speck of 
light below, — 

There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell 
swung to and fro. 

And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not 
the bell, 

Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's 
funeral knell. 

Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair 
face white. 

Hushed her frightened heart's wild throbbings: "Cur- 
few shall not ring to-night!'' 

It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden 

stepped once more 
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred 

years before. 
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed 

that she had done 
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting 

sun 
Light the sky with golden beauty, sires and dames, with 

heads of white. 
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one 

sad night. 

O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees 
him, and her brow 



14 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious 

traces now. 
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all 

bruised and torn; 
And her sweet young face, still haggard, with the 

anguish it had worn, 
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with 

misty light. 
" Go ! your lover lives," cried Cromwell. " Curfew 

shall not ring to-night." 

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner 
forth to die. 

In the morning of his manhood. 'Neath the darken- 
ing English sky. 

Bessie came with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love 
light sweet; 

Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his 
feet. 

In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed her face 
upturned and white. 

Whispered, " Darling, you have saved me, curfew will 
not ring to-night." 



THE STATION AGENT'S STORY 

'T^AKE a seat in the shade here, lady; it's tiresome, 
^ I know, to wait; 

But when the train reaches Verona it's almost sure to 
be late, — 

'Specially when any one's waitin'. Been gatherin' 
flowers, I see? 

Ah, well ! they're better company than a rough old fel- 
low like me. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 15 

You noticed the graves 'neath the willows, down there 

where the blossoms grew? 
Well, yes, there's a story about them, almost too 

strange to be true; 
'Tis a stranger, sweeter story than was ever written 

in books; 
And God made the endin' so perfect — There, now I 

see by your looks 

I will have to tell the story: Let me see; 'twas eight 
years ago. 

One blusterin' night in winter, when the air was thick 
with snow; 

As the freight came round the curve there they be- 
held a man on the track, 

Bravin' the storm before him, but not heedin' the foe 
at his back. 



And ere a hand could grasp the bell-rope, or a finger 

reach the rod, 
One sweep from the cruel snow-plough had sent the 

man's soul to its God ! 
They laid him out here in the freight-house. I stayed 

with him that night; 
He'd one of the pleasantest faces, so hopeful and young 

and bright. 

There was only a worn-out letter ; I know it by heart — 

it said: 
" Dear John : Baby May grows finely. I send you 

this curl from her head. 
We will meet you at Brackenboro'. The grandfather's 

sad and lone. 
But I read him your kind words, sayin', when we've 

a home of our own, 



i6 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

He shall sing the songs of old England beneath our 

own willow tree." 
That was all there was of it, lady, and 't was signed 

just " Alice Leigh." 
So we made him a grave in the mornin' and buried 

the man out there, 
Alone, unmourned, in a stranger's land, with only a 

stranger's prayer. 



But when he'd slept in his lonely grave out there nigh 

on to a year, 
Ray's freight ran into a washout by the culvert, away 

down here; 
There were only two passengers that night, dead when 

we found them there, — 
A sweet little English woman, and a baby with golden 

hair. 

On her breast lay the laughing baby, with its rosy 

finger-tips 
Still warm, and the fair young mother with a frozen 

smile on her lips. 
We laid them out here in the freight-house, I stayed 

that night with the dead; 
I shall never forget the letter we found in her purse; 

it said: 

"Dear Alice: Praise God I've got here! I'll soon 

have a home for you now; 
But you must come with the baby as soon as you can 

anyhow. 
Comfort the grandfather, and tell him that by and by 

he shall come, 
And sing the Songs of old England 'neath the willows 

beside our home; 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 17 

For, close by the door of our cottage I'll set out a wil- 
low tree, 

For his sake and the sake of old England. Lovingly 
yours, John Leigh." 

The tears filled my eyes as I read it; but I whispered, 

" God is just ! " 
For I knew that the true heart yonder — then only a 

handful of dust — 
Had drawn this sweet little woman right here, and 

God's merciful love 
Had taken her from the sorrow to the glad reunion 

above ! 

So, close by the grave of the other we laid her away 

to rest, — 
The golden-haired English mother, with the baby upon 

her breast. 
I planted those trees above them, for I knew their story, 

you see; 
And I thought their rest would be sweeter 'neath their 

own loved willow tree. 

Five years rolled along; and, lady, my story may now 

seem to you 
Like a wonderful piece of fiction; but I tell you it is 

true, — 
As true as that God is above us ! One summer day, hot 

and clear. 
As the train rolled into the station, and stopped to 

change engines here. 

Among a company of Mormons came a tremblin' white- 
haired man; 

He asked me in waverin' accents: "Will you tell me, 
sir, if you can, 



i8 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Of a place called Brackenboro' ? and how far have I 
yet to go ? " 

" It's the next station north," I answered, " only thir- 
teen miles below." 

His old face lit up for a moment with a look of joy 

complete ; 
Then he threw up his hands toward heaven, and dropped 

down dead at my feet ! 
" Old Hugh Leigh is dead ! " said a Mormon, " and 

sights o' trouble he's be'n. 
Nothin' would do when we started but that he must 

come with us then 

To find Alice, John, and the baby; and his heart was 

well-nigh broke 
With waitin' and watchin' in England for letters they 

never wrote." 
So we buried him there with the others, beneath the 

willow tree. 
'Twas God's way of endin' the story — more perfect 

than man's could be. 



IN A MINING TOWN 



4 4>'TpIS the last time, darling," he gently said, 

-■■ As he kissed her lips like the cherries red. 
While a fond look shone in his eye of brown: 
" My own is the prettiest girl in town. 
To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring 
A joyful peal. Was there ever a king 
So truly blest, on his royal throne. 
As I shall be when I claim my own ! " 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 19 

'Twas a fond farewell; 'twas a sweet good-by; 
But she watched him go with a troubled sigh, 
As into the basket, that swayed and swung 
O'er the yawning abyss, he lightly sprung; 
And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe 
As they lowered him into the depths below. 
Her sweet young face, with its tresses brown. 
Was the fairest face in the mining town. 



Lo, the morning came ! but the marriage-bell 
High up in the tower rang a mournful knell 
For the true heart buried 'neath earth and stone. 
Far down in the heart of the mine alone, — 
A sorrowful peal on their wedding-day 
For the breaking heart and the heart of clay; 
And the face looking out from her tresses brown 
Was the saddest face in the mining town. 

Thus time rolled along on its weary way. 
Until fifty years with their shadows gray 
Had darkened the light of her sweet eyes' glow, 
And had turned the brown of her hair to snow. 
Oh ! never a kiss from a husband's lips. 
Or the clasp of a child's sweet finger-tips, 
Had lifted one moment the shadows brown 
From the saddest heart in the mining town! 

Far down in the depths of the mine, one day 
In the loosened earth they were digging away. 
They discovered a face, so young, so fair; 
From the smiling lips to the red-gold hair 
Untouched by the finger of Time's decay. 
When they drew him up to the light of day. 
The wondering people gathered round 
To gaze on the man thus strangely found. 



20 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Then a woman came from among the crowd, 

With her long white hair, and her slight form bowed. 

She silently knelt by the form of clay. 

And kissed the lips that were cold and gray. 

Then the sad old face, with its snowy hair 

On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there. 

He had found her at last his waiting bride, 

And the people buried them side by side. 



SAVED AND SAVIOR 

TVyjORNING came with laggard footsteps, 
-^^■^ Lifting her reluctant face 
O'er the mists that hung like specters 

Of freed souls above the place 
Where Death reigned through long night watches; 

Where a helpless ship was tossed 
Like a toy upon the billows, 

Off the stormy German coast. 

On the shore stern faces gathered; 

Stalwart figures, drenched with sleet; 
Pallid women, kneeling, praying, 

Where the land and waters meet. 
Men whose lives had known its dangers. 

Brave and strong, with true hearts warm. 
Stood appalled before the terrors 

Of that wild December storm. 

When the morning light grew brighter. 

The pale watchers, young and old, 
Saw a black hull, rising, sinking. 

As the waters o'er it rolled. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 21 

On the shattered mast, uplifted 

In the fury of the storm, 
Clinging wildly, and despairing, 

Hung a single human form. 

Women hide their faces, weeping; 

Strong men turn aside their eyes; 
One, a youth in early manhood. 

Springs to where the life-boat lies. 
But a woman's arms are round him, 

Clinging fiercely, clasping tight, • 
And her pleading face, uplifted 

In the gray dawn, showeth white. 

Sweetheart? No. Her eyes are shadowed 

By too many falling tears, 
And her unbound hair is whitened 

By the sorrows of long years. 
Mother? Yes, and pressing closer — 

"Richard, dearest, stay with me! 
'Tis enough that I have given 

One already, to the sea. 

Only you are left to cheer me. 

Let some other mother's son 
Brave the dangers for this stranger; 

God requires of me but one. 
And the ocean hath thy brother ! 

Oh, my dear one, do not go." 
To his breast he clasped his mother; 

Clasped her fondly. Bending low. 

Kissed her lips, her cheek, her forehead — 

" Mother, dearest, that sad night, 
Near a foreign shore, he perished. 

With the land and men in sight. 



22 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

We have named each man a coward, 
Who stood there and saw him die, 

Though the tempest was against them, 
And the waves ran mountains high." 

Still the mother, clinging to him. 

Pressed to his her face of woe. 
" It is folly, it is madness ! 

Oh, my darling, do not go." 
" Somewhere in the world," he answered, 

" With her prayerful eyes grown dim 
By long vigils, oft' repeated. 

His old mother waits for him." 
" Go, my son, and God go with you ! " 

At his feet she dropped in prayer. 
And the wind that swept about her. 

Wrapped her in her long gray hair. 

Thrice the boat was launched, thrice driven 

Backward by that stronger power. 
But his God-like will, persistent. 

Conquered in that troubled hour. 
Now the life-boat rides the billows; 

Now the billows rise above. 
Hope and fear in quick succession, 

Rend that mother's heart of love. 



Inch by inch the boat advances. 

Sinewy arms and love divine 
Urge it onward, though against it 

Strength of wind and sea combine. 
" Courage ! " calls a strong voice, bravely. 

O'er the intervening track. 
" Hasten ! I can hold no longer," 

Fainter comes the answer back. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 23 

Higher leap the mad waves, clutching 

With white fingers at the sky, 
And the watchers, watching breathless, 

See the life-boat drawing nigh. 
Saved and savior, how they cheer them ! 

And a dozen hands reach out. 
Men rush waist-deep through the water; 

Women sob, and children shout, 
But the hero, with the halo 

Of a wonderous joy confest, 
Bears his burden to his mother; 

Lays the wan face on her breast. 

"Take the gift," — What sudden gladness 

Makes a glory in her eyes? 
'Tis the long lost son and brother 

Living, on her bosom lies ! 
And the dauntless young deliverer, 

In unselfish love, alone 
Daring for a stranger mother. 

Wins God's mercy for his own. 



THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE 

**\/r ^ Fred! I can't understand it," 

^^■^ And his voice quivered with pain. 
While the tears kept slowly dropping 

On his trembling hands like rain. 
" For Fred was so brave and loyal ; 

So true — but my eyes are dim, 
And I cannot read the letter, 

The last I shall get from him. 
Please read it, sir, while I listen — 

In fancy I see him — dead; 
My boy, shot down like a traitor. 

My noble, my brave boy Fred." 



24 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

"Dear Father," — so ran the letter, — 

" To-morrow when twilight creeps 
Along the hill to the churchyard, 

O'er the grave where mother sleeps. 
When the dusky shadows gather. 

They'll lay your boy in his grave 
For nearly betraying the country 

He would give his life to save. 
And, father, I tell you truly. 

With almost my latest breath, 
That your boy is not a traitor. 

Though he dies a traitor's death. 

"You remember Bennie Wilson? 

He's suffered a deal of pain. 
He was only that day ordered 

Back into the ranks again. 
I carried all of his luggage 

With mine, on the march that day; 
I gave him my arm to lean on, 

Else he had dropped by the way. 
'Twas Bennie's turn to be sentry; 

But I took his place, and I — 
Father, I fell asleep, and now 

I must die as traitors die. 

" The Colonel is kind and generous, 

He has done the best he can. 
And they will not bind or blind me — 

I shall meet death like a man. 
Kiss little Blossom; but, father. 

Need you tell her how I fall?" 
A sob from the shadowed corner, — 

Yes, Blossom had heard it all ! 
As she kissed the precious letter 

She said with faltering breath, 
" Our Fred was never a traitor. 

Though he dies a traitor's death." 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 25 

And a little sun-brown maiden, 

In a shabby time-worn dress, 
Took her seat a half-hour later 

In the crowded night express. 
The conductor heard her story 

As he held her dimpled hand, 
And sighed for the sad hearts breaking 

All over the troubled land. 
He tenderly dried the teardrops 

From her blue eyes brimming o'er. 
And guarded her footsteps safely 

Till she reached the White House door. 

The President sat at his writing; 

But the eyes were kind and mild 
That turned with a look of wonder 

On the httle shy-faced child. 
And he read Fred's farewell letter 

With a look of sad regret. 
" 'Tis a brave young life," he murmured, 

" And his country needs him yet. 
From an honored place in battle 

He shall bid the world good-by; 
If that brave young life is needed, 

He shall die as heroes die." 



HIS CHRISTMAS GIFT 

IF there's one thing makes me happy, more 'n another, 
'tis to sit 
Here above that little valley, lookin' right down into it. 
It reminds me of the Christmas present I brought home 

last year; 
One o' them queer circumstances people like to tell, 
an' hear. 



26 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

I'm a rough, plain spoken farmer, as most any one can 

see, 
An' the story'll get no fancy touches if it comes from 

me. 
But you'd like to hear me tell it? Well, sit down there 

in the shade. 
Right below us is the finest picture God has ever made. 
Rest your eyes there while I'm talkin'. I'm a rough 

man, as you see — 
Where Joe got his artist talent is a mystery to me. 
For the only brush I've handled was to paint the old 

cow-shed, 
An' his mother wastes her talents makin' pies, an' 

bakin' bread. 



Say ! but I was proud to win her. Finest lass for 

miles about. 
Hair the color o' the cowslips from the meadows 

peepin' out; 
Cheeks as red as Seek-no-furthers ; eyes — Excuse me, 

there I go 
Takin' up the time with Lucy, when you want it spent 

on Joe. 
Joe, our black sheep, always riled me, didn't care for 

work like Jim, 
Spent his time in idle dreamin'. But his mother 

favored him. 

Couldn't help it. 'Twas her nature. Always loved the 

weakest things; 
Had good words for ev'rybody; took the pizen out o* 

stings ; 
Said Joe's laziness was talent; loved her stalwart 

laddies too; 
But the weak one was her fav'rite — what else could 

his mother do? 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 27 

I was always pickin' at him, and 'twas plain enough to 

see 
That there wasn't much affection wasted 'twixt the 

lad an' me. 

Such things can't go on forever, an' one day we had a 

row. 
I was mad, an' said a good deal I don't Hke to think of 

now. 
Then his mother pleaded for him with her face all wet 

with tears, 
Said that he would be an honor to us in the comin' 

years. 
How I scoffed at that, an' told him to go earn his livin' 

then. 
He was welcome to his dollars, I'd share mine with 

Jim, an' Ben. 

That was five years last November. Lucy's face was in 

its prime, 
With the light o' girlhood on it; just toned down a 

bit by time; 
But it saddened, an' it whitened, an' I watched her, day 

by day. 
With a heartache I can't tell you, as her brown hair 

turned to gray. 
More than Joe had ever cost me I spent in my search 

for him, 
While his mother's face grew sadder, an' her watchin' 

eyes grew dim. 

Turn again toward the valley. There's a picture worth 

your while. 
With the sunlight restin' on it like the touch o' God's 

own smile. 
Keep your eyes there while I'm talkin'. You'll not 

see the like again. 



28 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Gradu'ly I turned home matters over to the care o' 

Ben, 
An' I spent my time with business. Though the home 

folks didn't know 
I was seekin' among th' lowly for my Lucy's lost 

boy Joe. 

I was just about discouraged when, as Christmas time 

drew nigh, 
I was lookin' at some presents, thinkin' what I'd better 

buy. 
An' I heard the people talkin', on the street, an' ev'ry 

where, 
'Bout a paintin', an' a fortune offered by a millionaire 
To the artist for his picture, but he wouldn't let it go. 
So, I paid the price to see it, thinkin' all the while o' 

Joe. 

Joe — a-wanderin', most likely homeless, friendless. 
First I knew 

I was in the crowd before it. 'Twixt two heads a bit 
o' blue 

Caught my eye, an' then I saw it all just as you see 
it there 

In God's paintin'. That green valley, with the sun- 
shine in the air, 

With the river runnin' through it, an' two clouds, like 
banks o' snow. 

An' I knew that he had done it. Joe, my Lucy's lost 
boy, Joe. 

" Joe," I cried, " come home to mother." An' the people 

thought me mad, 
When I climbed an' kissed the picture, for the sake o' 

Lucy's lad. 
But a man stepped out before them, with a face I didn't 

know; 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 29 

Took me in his arms, an' called me : — " Father ! " in 

the voice o' Joe. 
Then he stood right there before me like a king, so 

tall, an' grand; 
Joe, for whom I'd been a-seekin' among th' lowly o' 

the land. 

Christmas morn you should 'a' seen me, steppin' as 

though I walked on air. 
Happy? There was not a youngster half so happy 

anywhere. 
An' when I brought out my present smuggled in upon 

the sly, 
Lucy — now ain't women queer though? When 

they're glad they always cry — 
Yes, Joe's welcome home was something to remember. 

Ben an' Jim. 
An' the family altogether's everlastin' proud o' him. 



MARGARET 

"PAIR Margaret! beautiful Margaret! 

In the hush of the twilight cold. 
The sun on a dazzling throne has set 

In a cloud of amber and gold; 
And the great green waves, with their white caps wet, 

O'er the beach to her feet have rolled. 

She waits for the lover whose kiss one day 

Was pressed on her quivering lips, — 
The lover who sailed from her side away 

In one of those swift-sailing ships 
O'er the waves that bright in the sunlight lay 

'Neath the glow of its finger-tips. 



30 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Oh, the sea ! the angry tempest-tost sea ! 

The sea with its roar and its gloom, — 
The treacherous sea, how it shouts in glee 

O'er each jewel-decked coral tomb! 
The glorious, peaceful, resplendent sea, 

In the light of a golden noon. 



Whenever the shadowy twilight creeps 
O'er the earth, with her fair feet wet, — 

When the stars come out and the great world sleeps. 
When the murmuring waters fret 

On the sandy shore, — then she waits and weeps, 
Lonely, sorrowful Margaret. 



There she sits alone 'mid the gleaming sands, 

By the shadowy ivied wall. 
While over the clasp of her trembling hands 

Like a shower the tear drops fall; 
And the sea brings murmurs of far-off lands. 

And the blue sky bends over all. 



" Oh, bring back my lover to me ! " she cries, 

As she sits by the sea alone. 
" Oh, pitiful Father in Paradise ! 

Stoop down from thy glorious throne, 
And grant to the light of my waiting eyes 

One glimpse of his face, — only one ! " 



Now the sea rolls in with a mighty swell, — 
Will it bring a curse, or a crown? 

For, alas ! no echoing whispers tell 

Of the home-bound ship that went down 

'Mid the hidden reefs, with never a knell 
From the slumbering harbor town. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 31 

Oh, beautiful Margaret, pale and fair ! 

By the sea no longer alone; 
For two faces lie in the starlight there, 

With features like chiseled stone, 
And the seaweed drifts from his tangled hair 

To the sunny locks of her own. 



THE BRIDGE OF SAN MARTIN 

t4T>UILD the bridge of San Martin across the rapid 

^ stream; 
Across the dashing Tagus, whose waters flash and 

gleam, 
Whose angry, raging billows, foam-crested as they 

flow. 
Send back a roar defiant from out the depths below." 

" But who shall plan the structure? " Black sweeps the 

swollen tide, 
While anxious faces gather dark-browed on either side. 
And, lo ! before Tenorio a youthful form appears, 
Tall, dark, and slender, seeming a very boy in years. 

" But what pledge can you offer, that our trust be not 

vain? " 
Across the young face hopeful there swept a dash of 

pain. 
One glance, half love, half pity, he gave his girlish 

wife. 
Then said " I pledge my honor, — my honor and my 

life. 

" When they remove the scaffold which holds the arch 

of stone, 
I'll stand upon the center of the great new bridge 

alone 



32 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

And if the crowning glory of all my heart's desire 
Is wrecked, with it I perish. What more would you 
require?" 

Behold the work completed! To-morrow's light shall 

see 
The great bridge of San Martin from all support cut 

free! 
But he who watched its progress with heart and eye 

aglow, 
Beside fair Catalina sits wrapt in deepest woe. 



" To-morrow morn the people will gather on the shore, 

And I shall see the sun rise o'er Spain's green hills 
once more; 

Once more I'll clasp you, darling, close to my break- 
ing heart. 

Before that awful moment in which I take a part. 



" A single fatal error ! To-morrow's sun will gleam 
Upon the bridge and builder wrecked on the raging 

stream, 
Ah ! death indeed were welcome, forgetfulness were 

kind, 
To veil the dark dishonor and sham.e I leave behind." 



No word spoke Catalina, but when he sought his bed 
To the bridge of San Martin she flew with noiseless 

tread. 
A lurid spark she kindled, the night-winds fanned the 

flame. 
And soon the fiery billows had saved her husband's 

name. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 33 

The new bridge of San Martin from out the dust and 

flame 
Reared high in massive grandeur, a monument of 

fame 
To crown the youthful builder. Complete in every 

part, 
His name's enshrined with honor in every Spaniard's 

heart. 

DOWN THE TRACK 

T N the deepening shades of twilight / 

Stood a maiden, young and fair; 
Rain-drops gleamed on cheek and forehead, 

Rain-drops glistened in her hair. 
Where the bridge had stood at morning 

Yawned a chasm deep and black; 
Faintly came the distant rumbling 

From the train far down the track. 

Paler grew her marble features; 

Faster came her frightened breath, — 
Charlie kissed her lips at morning, — 

CharHe rushing down to death ! 
Must she stand and see him perish? 

Angry waters answer back; 
Louder comes the distant rumbling 

From the train far down the track. 

At death's door faint hearts grow fearless 

Miracles are sometimes wrought. 
Springing from the heart's devotion 

In the forming of a thought. 
From her waist she tears her apron. 

Flings her tangled tresses back. 
Working fast and praying ever 

For that train far down the track. 



34 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

See ! a lurid spark is kindled, 

Right and left she flings the flame. 
Turns and speeds with airy fleetness 

Downward toward the coming train ; 
Sees the red eye gleaming nearer, 

Through the shadows dense and black. 
Hark ! a shriek prolonged and deafening,- 

They have seen her down the track. 

Onward comes the train, — now slower, 

But the maiden, where is she? 
Flaming torch and flying footsteps, 

Fond eyes gaze in vain to see. 
With a white face turned to heaven, 

All her sunny hair thrown back. 
There they found her, one hand lying 

Crushed and bleeding on the track. 

Eager faces bent above her. 

Wet eyes pitied, kind lips blest; 
But she saw no face save Charlie's, — 

'T was for him she saved the rest. 
Gold they gave her from their bounty; 

But her sweet eyes wandered back 
To the one whose love will scatter 

Roses all along life's track. 



REMEMBER THE ALAMO * 

'T^WO student lads one morning met 
-■■ Under the blue-domed Texas skies; 
Strangers by birth and station, yet 
Youth's heart lies close beneath its eyes. 



The battle cry of San Jacinto. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 35 

A thousand miles lay 'twixt their homes, 

Watered by many a crystal stream; 
Dame Nature reared a thousand domes, 

And spread a thousand plains between. 
They met, clasped hands, scorned bolt and bar. 

Which cautious age puts on the heart; 
Shared room and purse, then wandered far 

By quiet ways and busy mart. 
By San Antonio's winding stream. 

Through narrow streets, the two lads passed, 
Saw antique ruins, like some dream 

Of ancient times. 

They came at last. 
Where the Alamo's moss-grown walls 

Stand gray and silent in the sun. 
Where'er its somber shadow falls 

Is hallowed ground, — more sacred none ! 
Within its portals stood a man 

Like some grim shadow on Time's shore. 
Gray as the walls about him, and 

Like them a memory, nothing more, — 
A page from out the deathless past ! 

Through film of years, and rising smoke 
From his old pipe, he saw at last 

The stranger lads, then gravely spoke 

" Come you to worship at our shrine, 

The shrine o' Texas liberty? 
Or come to speed the work o' time. 

An' mar these stones grown dear to me? 
Rome had her heroes, so have we; 

I don't know what the big word means. 
But this is our Thermopylae. 

An' matches Rome's for bloody scenes. 
My story? 



36 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

" 'Tisn't much to tell, 

'Twas more to live, but e'en that seems, 
At times, a sort o' misty spell, — 

A somethin' shaped from dreamin' dreams. 
An' then again 'tis wondrous real; 

I seem to see the smokin' plains. 
I hear the cannon's roar, an' feel 

The young blood rushin' through my veins, 
For I was with Sam Housten there 

At San Jacinto. 

"All the tricks 
That sneekin' Mexicans will dare, 

An' did, we paid in '36. 
We were three brothers. 



"Brother Jim 

The tallest, stoutest o' the three, 
Then me, hot-headed, next to him, 

An' Will was mother's pet, you see ! 
For Will was slender, like a girl. 

Brave at the heart an' true as steel; 
An' me an' Jim, long side o' him. 

Were not much 'count. 



" The past seems real 
Enough just now. My eyes are dim. 

Grown weak with years. Well, lads, we three 
Shouldered our muskets. Brother Jim 

Was here with Travis. Will an' me 
Heard how our Texas heroes fought 

With death behind an' death before. 
To right an' left o' them, an' naught 

But death when they could fight no more. 
It fires my blood to think o' it. 

The awful scene comes back to me. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 37 

How, like wild beasts trapped in a pit 
They fought, as round 'em surged a sea 

O' swarthy faces, black with hate 
Like their black hearts. 



" Six thousand strong 
They swarmed about, nor wall, nor gate, 

Nor rifle-shot could hold 'em long. 
Like flies about a pot o' sweet. 

Like savage fiends let loose from hell, 
Like starvin' wolves in sight o' meat, 

They filled the place. 

" There Crockett fell, 
Here Bowie, on his dyin' bed 

Was butchered, so was all o' them. 
This room was filled with Texans dead. 

The bravest, truest, best o' men." 



The old man paused. Low drooped his head; 

Upon his breast his beard lay white. 
" These dead men nerved our arms," he said, 

" For somethin' more than human might. 
Will flushed up when he spoke Jim's name; 

There wasn't time for weepin' then, 
But in his eyes I saw the flame 

That burns the softness out o' men. 
We were at Colita. 



"Mayhap you 
Have read the story? Fannin's men 

'Gainst fearful odds surrendered. True 
Their numbers sort o' scart us then, 

But later we forgot all fear. 
An' fought like men gone sudden mad. 



38 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

They wrote their own death-warrant here, 

But it was signed at Goliad. 
Yes, we were prisoners, confined 

At Goliad, but soon to be 
Sent home, an' so we didn't mind 

Our prison walls, for Will an' me 
Still had each other. 

''That last night 

We, a right jolly set o' men. 
Sang * Home, Sweet Home ' with all our might, 

An' talked o' home like boys o' ten. 
I reckon that with home so near. 

An' mother, too, we grew a bit 
Soft-hearted. Will dashed off a tear 

Quick like as if ashamed o' it. 
An' me — 

" Well, mornin' came, an' we 

Were ordered out. The air was sweet 
With scent o' flowers. I seem to see 

The posies noddin' at our feet. 
As their wee faces nodded there 

Beside the Mission walls, where we 
In long lines stood with freezin' blood 

A-waitin' for the liberty 
They promised us. My God ! it came 

Too soon ! 'Twas home we'd thought about. 
An' wife an' child, but not the flame 

O' death that let our life-blood out. 
One wild thought o' the future, then 

A flash o' fire an' nothin'ness. 
Shot down like dogs. Three hundred men 

Sent home! 'Twas murder, nothin' less. 

" All day I lay there feignin' death 
Among the dead, an' when the night 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 39 

Came on, I searched with pantin' breath 

For Will's dead face, in the dim light. 
Yes, lads, I found him where he fell, 

An' kneelin' 'neath the starry skies — 
Mayhap 't want soldier-like, but — well 

I choked, an' somethin' filled my eyes. 
I can't tell how I got away. 

I reckon angel wings swooped down, 
An' sort o' hid me night an' day. 

For eyes were peerin' all around. 
An' / was saved. I don't know why. 

Unless God sent an' drafted me 
From 'mong the dead to start the cry 

That gave us Texas liberty. 
How did it end? 

" No Texas lad 

Would ask me that. I reckon you 
Came from the north? Well, lads, we had 

Our 'counts all ready, what was due 
Us marked in figures plain, then we 

At San Jacinto took our pay. 
The price we set was Liberty; 

An' it was paid that very day, 
An' they were two to one of us; 

But we went in for vengeance then. 
The Alamo dead stood side of us 

An' gave each man the strength o' ten. 
The plan o' battle? 

" I can't tell. 

Somehow my brain forgets the plan. 
But white flowers turned to red where fell 

Each sneakin', savage Mexican. 
The debt o' blood we paid in blood 

'Remember, boys, the Alamo!' 
Fired every Texan where he stood. 



40 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

An' nerved his arm for deadly blow." 
We whipped 'em, lads, an' Liberty 

Was born, that day, through fire an' smoke. 
This comrade's all that's left to me." 

He lit his clay pipe as he spoke. 



THE HERO OF CONEMAUGH 

"LJ ILLSIDES were rosy with myriad blooms ; 

Mottled and fragrant with Spring's sweet flowers 
Her eyes laughed out through her golden noons, 
And gazed through mist of her rainbow showers. 

High on the hills the whispering pines. 
Low in the valley the peaceful homes, 

Clang of factories and toil of mines, 
Cities shadowed by emerald domes. 

Through the long valley the river ran; 

Angry and swollen came sweeping down. 
Under the high-walled works of man; 

Under the bridges to Pittsburg town. 

Hark! in the distance a voice is heard, 
And far, faint tread of steel-shod feet, 

A whisper, an echo, a louder word, 

A whirlwind of dust, a shout in the street. 

" To the hills, for your lives ! " the warning cry 
Sweeps like the mad tornado's breath. 

Afar on the wind like a troubled sigh. 
Comes a roar, the onward rush of Death. 

And fast, and faster the rider rides. 

His voice grown hoarse with his warning cry. 

His spurs strike deep in the blood-flecked sides 
Of his panting steed as he hurries by. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 41 

But faster than steed of flesh and blood 
Rides Death on his tall white horse behind. 

High on the crest of the raging flood; 
The rushing flood that no man can bind. 

Oh, brave young messenger, turn your face 
To the hills of safety. Tempt not fate, 

For Death is riding a winning race. 
He gains upon you. Too late, too late! 

For others' safety the brave boy died, 

Fulfilling his life's diviner law. 
Time hath no nobler deed beside. 

Than that recorded at Conemaugh. 



IN ANSWER 



' But can't you make it, sir? " she asked. 
" Impossible ! it leaves at three, 

And we are due a quarter past." 
"Is there no way? Oh! tell me, then. 

Are you a Christian ? " "I am not." 
" And are there none among the men 

Who run this train ? " "No — I forgot — 
I think this fellow over here. 

Oiling the engine, claims to be." 
She turned upon the engineer 

A fair face white with agony. 

" Are you a Christian ? " " Yes, I am." 
"Then, oh, sir, won't you pray with me, 

All the long way, that God will stay. 
That God will hold the train at B ? " 



42 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

"'Twill do no good. It leaves at three, 

And — " " Yes, but God can hold the train ; 
My dying child is calling me, 

And I must see her once again. 
Oh! won't you prayf" "I will!" a nod 

Emphatic, as he takes his place. 
When Christians grasp the arm of God, 

They grasp the power that rules the race. 

Out from the station swept the train 

On time, — swept on past wood and lea; 
The engineer, with cheeks aflame. 

Prayed, "Oh, Lord, hold the train at B 

Then flung the throttle wide, and like 

Some giant monster of the plain, 
With panting sides and mighty strides, 

Past hill and valley swept the train. 

A half, — a minute, — two are gained; 

Along those burnished lines of steel 
His glances leap, each nerve is strained, 

And still he prays with fervent zeal. 
Heart, hand, and brain with one accord 

Work while his prayer ascends to Heaven: 
" Just hold the train eight minutes, Lord, 

And I'll make up the other seven." 

With rush and roar through meadow lands. 

Past cottage homes and green hillsides. 
The panting thing obeys his hands, 

And speeds along with giant strides. 
They say an accident delayed 

The train a little while; but He 
Who listened while His children prayed. 

In answer held the train at B . 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 43 



INSPIRATION 

LIKE requiem chanted for the dead, 
Whose souls have passed life's outer bar, 
The last clear note of music sped 

Through vaulted dome and corridor; 
Then gently rose the murmurous flow 
Of thoughts exchanged in converse low. 

The grave professors stood apart, 
And spoke in deep, melodious tones, 

Environed by the " nobler art " 

That claims a loftier seat than thrones. ' 

Beside the door a timid lass. 

Clad in a faded, tattered gown, 

Her wealth of golden hair let down. 
Her wide eyes startled with the glow 

Of some strange power that held her soul 

Entranced with mesmeric control. 
Crouched on the marble step below. 
And listened till the last sweet strain, 
In space had lost its low refrain. 

Trembling, she entered at the door; 
As in a dream she crossed the floor 
To where the rose-wood wonder stood 
With ivory keys, and keeling low 

She kissed them thrice, while mantling blood 
Flushed her young face. Hushed was the flow 

Of careless speech. Each matron smiled 

Indulgent on the pretty child. 

One stern professor raised his hand, 
To save that which he valued much 

From her lips' sacrilegious touch. 
But paused with half expressed command. 



44 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

O'er either cheek in tongues of flame, 
The fluctuating color came, 

A surging sea of carmine light. 

Then quick upspringing from her knees, 
With untrained hand she swept the keys. 

And leaping forth into the night 
Came wondrous bursts of melody; 
Waves of completest harmony. 
Pulsating all the midnight air, 
As souls have loosed their bonds in prayer. 

They hushed their very breath to hear 

The wild, weird strains that rose and fell. 
Each grave professor bent his ear. 
Each smile indulgent turned a tear. 

They saw the rapt face, wondrous fair; 
The clinging curls of golden hair; 

The touch of inspiration's hand 
That guided her, and something more. 

The wisest could not understand. 

Was she an angel sent from Heaven, 
And wandering past the open door. 
Mistaking it for Paradise, 
Had entered in? Like storm-clouds driven 
By furious blasts their thoughts were riven 
Betwixt conjecture and surprise. 

A chord of sweeter melody. 

And then a crash. She turned and gazed 
As one just waking, frightened, dazed. 

Bewildered at the rich display 

Of lights — a timid fawn at bay. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 45 

Across her face from brow to chin 
A quiver swept. Her lashes drooped. 
And closed her startled eyes within. 

The stern professor laid his hand, 

Upraised in anger, on her head. 
" God knows. I cannot understand. 

'Tis past the ken of man," he said. 



CAIN 

THEY called us twin brothers. Ronald and I ; 
But I tell you, sir, and I tell you true, 
It was nature's caprice that made us two. 
The day of our birth a soul cleft in twain, 
Was shared by each. Can one-half of man die 
While the other half lives? Was Ronald slain? 
See ! the breath of me is warm on my lips. 
And the hot blood leaps to my finger-tips. 

Ronald was fair as the face of the sun; 

I was as dark as tempestuous night; 

Ronald came forth with his soul all in white; 

I was a demon let loose upon earth, 

Feared and accurst since the day of my birth. 
He the good, I the bad, thus we were one. 

He was my conscience; my grand, truer part; 

I was the stronger of muscle and limb; 

Giant, protector, loved only by him. 

As man admires strength in himself, so he 

With proud egotism gloried in me — 
I plated my dross with th' gold of his heart. 



46 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Twice when death came to him I stepped between; 

Once 'twas a mad-dog. I throttled the brute; 

Once 'twas a serpent. My arm caught its fang*, 

As straight at his face the vile reptile sprang. 

Here is the place where its poison took root; 
Here is the scar of its venomous spleen. 

I tell you I loved him. Can man efface 
The best of himself in moments of rage? 
Can he tear from his life its one white page? 
His hope of Heaven? What was it that came 
Between us that night like a hellish flame? 

Consuming us both in its mad embrace. 

It was love ! The thing on which homes are built. 
It came in the guise of a woman's face, 
And confronted us in that lonely place. 
We two, being one, had the same desire. 
He spoke her name. With my hand on the hilt 
Of my sword I listened. Like liquid fire 
The burning blood coursed through my swollen veins, 
And hardened the length of them into chains. 

What happened? I know not. Ronald lay there 
At my feet. The sod grew red at his side — 

A river of red — crept up to his hair; 

Lapped his cheek; spread its gory fingers wide. 

A flower dripped it over its brimming cup; 

Earth's thirsty lips parted and drank it up. 

And straightway an Angel confronted me, 
With feet, ankle-deep in that awful wound. 
My senses reeled, and the heart of me swooned 
At sight of my crime. He reached for my sword. 
And traced on my forehead a burning word, 

Thus branding me " Cain " for eternity. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 47 



THE EMPEROR'S RING 

ipAIR Spring with buds and blossoms had rounded 
-*• out complete, 

And all the land was fragrant beneath her dainty feet. 
The pearly, dew-drops glistened on rose-hedge, bush 

and tree. 
And flashed their sparkling jewels all over Germany. 



The Emperor Joseph pacing, slow-footed down the 
street, 

Grew tender in his musings, for Spring was young 
and sweet. 

For him the glad-voiced songsters sent forth their 
notes of glee, 

And Heaven seemed showering blessings all over Ger- 
many. 

He met a little maiden with tear-drops in her eyes, 

And to his kindly questions she sobbed out low re- 
plies. 

" My father died in battle, kind sir," she said, " and 
we — 

His dear ones now are starving, in his loved Germany. 

" The Emperor is mighty, upon the German throne. 
What cares he for our sorrows? Oh, sir, could he 

but own 
A heart as warm and tender as thine, there soon would 

be 
A sound of thanks ascending all over Germany. 

" Ah, child," he said, " how harshly you judge your 

absent king. 
Mayhap his heart is tender. Here take this little ring; 



THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



A passport to the monarch who fills the German throne, 
For he who loves his people will make their wrongs 
his own." 

Within the royal palace, with frightened, down-cast 

eyes, 
She stood before the monarch in terror and surprise. 
" Fear not, my little maiden," he said, " no more for 

thee 
Shall come despair or hunger in dear old Germany." 



THE QUEEN AND THE BEGGAR'S CHILD 

QILK and diamonds and trailing lace, 
^ Haughty carriage and fair proud face; 
Out from the palace towering high 
Grand and gray 'neath the bending sky, 
O'er the lawn with its carpet green, 
Lightly stepping came Austria's Queen, 
Flashing gems in the summ.er's sun. 
Tender mother and queen in one. 

Jewels gleam on her royal hands, 
Clasp her arms with their shining bands, 
Sparkle and glow where the sunbeams fall; 
But the most precious of them all 
The nurse is guarding with tender care, — 
The royal babe, so rosy and fair; 
Pressing fond kisses on cheek and brow. 
The queen is only a mother now. 

Down the lawn, in its shadow deep, 
A beggar-woman lies asleep. 
Hunger, poverty, pain, and care 
Darken the face once young and fair; 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 49 

There by the wayside, seeking rest, 
Clasping a babe upon her breast. 
Its hungry wail across the green 
Stirs the heart of the mother-queen. 

Down on the green grass kneeling low, 
Baring her bosom as white as snow, 
Laying the child without a name 
Where only royal babes have lain. 
Feeding it from her own proud breast. 
Hungry, starving, — ah ! there's the test, — 
Mother-love spans the chasm wide; 
Queen and station must stand aside ! 



DRIFTED OUT TO SEA 

TWO Httle ones, grown tired of play. 
Roamed by the sea, one summer day, 
Watching the great waves come and go, 
Prattling as children will, you know, 
Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings; 
Sometimes hinting at graver things. 

At last they spied within their reach 
An old boat cast upon the beach. 
Helter-skelter, with merry din. 
Over its sides they clambered in — 
Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair, 
Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair. 

Rolling in from the briny deep, 
Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep, 
Higher, higher, upon the sands. 
Reaching out with their giant hands. 
Grasping the boat in boisterous glee, 
Tossing it up and out to sea. 



50 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

The sun went down 'mid clouds of gold: 
Night came, with footsteps damp and cold; 
Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by; 
And now, across the sunny sky, 
A black cloud stretches far away, 
And shuts the golden gates of day. 



A storm comes on, with flash and roar, 
And all the sky is shrouded o'er; 
The great waves, rolling from the west, 
Bring night and darkness on their breast. 
Still floats that boat through driving storm, 
Protected by God's powerful arm. 



The home-bound vessel, Seahird, lies 
In ready trim, 'twixt sea and skies. 
Her captain paces restless now, 
A troubled look upon his brow. 
While all his nerves with terror thrill ; 
The shadow of some coming ill. 

The mate comes up to where he stands, 
And grasps his arm with eager hands ; 
"A boat has just swept past," said he, 
" Bearing two children out to sea. 
'Tis dangerous now to put about. 
But they cannot be saved without." 



" Naught but their safety will suffice ; 
They must he saved!" the captain cries. 
"By every thought that's just and right; 
By lips I hoped to kiss to-night, 
I'll peril vessel, life and men. 
And God will not forsake me then." 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 51 

With anxious faces, one and all, 

Each man responded to the call; 

And when, at last, through driving storm, 

They lifted up each little form. 

The captain started, with a groan, 

" My God ! " he cried, " they are my own ! " 



THE LUCK OF MUNCASTER 

A Legend of Merrie England 

"DESIDE the crystal well she stood, 
^ Fair Marg'ret, Lother's daughter. 
Clear hazel eyes smiled back at her 

Up from the sparkling water. 
The sunlight fell on tresses bright; 

Soft glints of brown and golden. 
While at her feet Lord William knelt, 

And told the story olden. 

An outlaw border chieftain he. 

Of haughty face and carriage. 
With earnest words, on bended knee 

Besought her hand in marriage. 
" My life with thine," the lady said, 

" Can never be united ; 
To brave Sir John of Muncaster 

This hand of mine is plighted." 

" My vengeance," cried the dark-browed Scot, 
" On thee, proud Lother's daughter ! 

This lord of thine shall not be safe 
From me on land or water ! " 



52 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Disdainful smiled the lady then; 

"Thy threats are unavailing; 
While Sir John owns the sacred cup, 

Mischance can ne'er assail him. 

" 'Twas Henry Sixth pronounced the charm 

(A glass cup was the token), 
* In Muncaster good luck shall reign 

Till this charmed cup is broken ! ' 
A hundred years the charm hath held 

Its power beyond undoing; 
Good luck attends Muncaster lords 

In battle and in wooing." 

"And this the luck of Muncaster?" 

Said the rejected lover. 
" The charm hath stood a hundred years. 

It shall not stand another." 
Then straight to Carlisle tower he rode: 

" My lord," he cried, " make ready. 
For Douglas comes with Scottish hordes ! 

Each arm is strong and steady. 

" Prepare to give them battle now, 

And mete out justice measure; 
Or send some trusted messenger 

For thy most valued treasure," 
" Small treasure have I," Sir John said, 

" But one in casket oaken 
I fain would save from plundering hand. 

Untarnished and unbroken. 

"Go thou and bring the gem I prize; 

Thou art no foe or stranger, 
Else why hast rode this weary way 

To warn me of my danger ? " 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 53 

And ere the bat had winged its flight 

Across night's sable curtain 
The dark-browed knight of Liddersdale 

Had done the errand certain. 

" Now by my lady's lips, I swear, 

Thy friendship is amazing," 
Cried brave Sir John of Muncaster, 

Into the dark face gazing. 
" Swear not by lips of her you love, — 

You never more shall press them; 
Bright are the locks of Marg'ret's hair, — 

No more shalt thou caress them." 

Exclaimed the fiery Scot in glee, 

" I hold the precious token 
That binds good luck to thee and thine, — 

That charmed spell shall be broken. 
Behold I dash it to the earth ! 

In vain thy deepest regret; 
Douglas shall win thy palace tower, 

And / the lady Marg'ret." 

The traitor fled; Sir John sank down 

Beside the casket oaken: 
O miracle ! the crystal cup 

Lay there unharmed, unbroken ! 
Two thousand soldiers came in time 

To stay the Douglas slaughter, 
And brave Sir John was wedded to 

Fair Marg'ret, Lother's daughter. 



54 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

A BRAVE EMPEROR 

"^riGHT rolled its somber curtain back to greet the 
^ dawning day, 

Black swept the angry Danube on its terror-freighted 
way. 

Great blocks of ice came crashing down amid the 
torrent's roar, 

And seething waters flung their spray upon the ice- 
bound shore. 

Across that raging, roaring space where Leopoldstadt 

lies, 
Back to Vienna's Hstening ear came moans and sobs 

and cries, — 
Came piteous voices pleading. " We are starving ! 

bring us bread ! " 
And white hands reached imploring o'er the waters 

dark and dread. 

The Emperor Francis Second soon filled the boats with 

food; 
But who will face the dangers of this angry, seething 

flood? 
He begs, implores, and threatens: bribes and promises 

are vain. 
While from his famished people comes that anguished 

wail again. 

" I cannot see my people starve ! " The Emperor 

Francis cries; 
A quiver thrills his earnest voice, a moisture dims his 

eyes. 
Alone he leaps into a boat and pushes from the shore; 
" They'd give their lives for me," he said, " and I can 

do no more." 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 55 

A hundred men are ready now to brave the swollen 

tide. 
If death must come to their brave king, they'll meet it 

at his side. 
Behold they reach the distant shore ! The hungry ones 

are fed; 
And mothers kiss the hands that bring their starving 

children bread. 



WHEN THE CHRIST-CHILD CAME 

THE window blazed out with its Christmas light, 
Twas decked with holly and mistletoe bright 
It was fairy-land. There were sweets and toys. 
There were dolls in costume and shepherd boys. 
There was Christmas joy in the air about. 
But a poor child stood in the cold without. 
With her wan, white face, and her tearful eye, 
And the happy mothers they passed her by. 

" I will stay right here by the Christ-child's home," 
She said, "for at midnight he's sure to come, 
I'll wait in the light so he can't forget. 
For I've never had any Christmas yet. 
He couldn't come into our room so drear. 
But the Christ-child will surely find me here, 
And he'll bring me a doll like that, or this, 
And maybe he'll give me a Christmas kiss." 



At midnight the beautiful Christ-child came. 
In garments of light, on a cloud of flame. 
He bent o'er the child in that bleak, cold place, 
He warmed her, and fed her and kissed her face. 



56 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

He lifted her out of her life's dark night, 
And carried her into the Christmas light. 
But when it was morning the people said 
That a child was found by the window dead. 



THEIR THANKSGIVING DAY 

npHE floor had been swept, and the furniture dusted, 
■*■ The table white spread in the neat dining-hall; 
The cakes on the pantry shelf, pure snowy crusted; 

The pies, custard, pumpkin, mince, apple, and all, 
With pans full of doughnuts and cookies, were waiting 

To fill up the table in splendid array; 
The pink suckling pig, and the turkeys were baking, 

And all things were ready for Thanksgiving day. 

Once again Grandma Snow looked in at the baking, 

While Grandpa looked anxiously out at the door, 
Some tenderer thought in their bosoms awaking 

Of life's holy mission so soon to be o'er. 
At last all was done. By the fire brightly burning 

They sat, those two loving ones, aged and gray, 
And talked of the children now gladly returning 

To father and mother this Thanksgiving day. 

"It's time they were coming; why, do you know, 
mother. 

It seems but a day since the children were here? 
A bright, noisy group, playing tag with each other, 

And now they come home to us just once a year. 
Little Mary will come, our dear little Mary — 

Who'd think of our baby as going away 
With a stranger! and Tom, from the distant prairie, 

Ah, well ! they'll be with us this Thanksgiving day. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 57 

"And Dick, from down South, with his fine, pretty 
lady,— 
I hope she won't scorn us, and our humble home." 
" And Florence," said Grandma, " will come with her 
baby. 
And Susan, with all the dear children, will come. 
Well, well ! they will find us here ready to meet them, — 
We keep the nest warm when our birds are away, — 
And in the dear home of their childhood we'll greet 
them 
At least once a year, on the Thankgiving day. 



" The years seem so bright since you brought me here, 
Peter; 

Your love made them peaceful and happy and long." 
"And, Mary," said he, "you are dearer and sweeter 

Than ever you were in the years that are gone. 
We've come down the hill of life's journey together, 

Through sunshine and shade, side by side all the 
way; 
Your lover, who told you his love by the river, 

Is your lover still on this Thanksgiving day. 



" When our last one left us, dear heart, how we missed 
her! 
But now they're all settled in homes of their own. 
Our life work is finished," — he bent over and kissed 
her, — 
" In the empty home nest we are waiting alone." 
With his arm round her waist, her head on his 
shoulder. 
His hand clasping hers in the old loving way, 
They are roaming, once more, by the stream where he 
told her 
His love long ago on a Thanksgiving day. 



58 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

He is telling it over, the sweet, olden story! 

Forgetting the years and the sorrows between; 
The sunlight creeps in with a halo of glory, — 

Creeps in through the window, unheeded, unseen. 
There's a rumbHng of wheels; there are glad, happy 
voices; 

Men, women, and children, in festive array 
Crowd the flow'r-bordered walk — how each fond heart 
rejoices 

In this glad reunion on Thanksgiving day ! 

His hand clasping hers the aged couple are sitting, 

The room has grown chill, for the fire has gone out; 
The kitten is playing with grandmother's knitting, — 

They heed not the children who gather about. 
They heed not, they care not, for over the river 

The dusky-winged angel hath borne them away! 
Hand in hand, side by side, crossed over together, 

Life crowned with eternity's Thanksgiving day. 



UNDER THE CURFEW BELL 

'T^'WARD the church the gray old sexton 
-*- Wandered slowly. His the hand 
That should wake the sweet bell echoes 

Of the " curfew " in the land. 
Down the daisy-bordered pathway, 

Like a gleam of sunshine bright. 
Came a little fairy figure. 

Golden-headed, clad in white; 
Earnest browed, and face uplifted; 

Dimpled hands that sought his own; 
Rosy lips just touched with pathos 

As they made their trouble known. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 59 

" My dear mamma's gone to Heaven. 

Please, sir, where is Heaven, say? 
I asked papa all about it, 

But he doesn't know the way; 
And I wants to find my mamma 

In the place where she has gone, 
But I'm 'fraid I might get losted 

If I went there all alone. 
Mamma said papa must bring me 

Safe to her in Heaven some day: 
But he telled me, when I asked him. 

That he didn't know the way." 



" Heaven is there." He pointed upward. 

And the fair child's troubled eyes 
Only saw the tall, old belfry, 

Dark against the sunset skies. 
Then he hastened to his duties. 

Left the wee one standing there, 
With the glory of the sunset 

On her face and in her hair. 
" I will find mamma," she murmured. 

As she entered at the door; 
Summer sunset paled behind her. 

Gloomy shadows stretched before. 



Up the stairway climbed the baby, 

Upward to the belfry tower; 
Saw the star eyes looking downward. 

In the solemn twilight hour; 
Saw the street lamps gleaming upward 

Through the shadows, gray and dim; 
Saw the blue sky all about her. 

And the bell's great, iron rim; 



6o THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Stood alone 'twixt earth and Heaven, 
Waiting for the angel hands, 

That should bear her safe to mamma 
Through the mystic border lands. 

Suddenly the great tongue trembled, 

And the fair child's startled eyes 
Saw the black dome hanging o'er her 

Sway against the dark'ning skies; 
Then a crash, and ere the echoes 

O'er the hills had ceased to ring. 
Little Pearle was with her mother. 

In the palace of the King. 



THE FEAST OF CHERRIES 

TT ARK ! 'tis a sound of music, 

■*--■■ W^hence comes the joyful strain? 

A thousand childish voices 

Join in the glad refrain. 
And swell the mighty chorus. 

The tramp of children's feet. 
With gladsome tread re-echo 

Down Hamburg's busy street. 

'Neath bending boughs of cherries. 

With joyful shout and song, 
The gayly dressed procession 

Of children pass along. 
For, once in dear old Hamburg 

A direful day of woe 
Was turned to gladness, over 

Four hundred years ago. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 6i 

The Hussites led by Nasus, 

Pronounced the city's doom, 
And over all the people 

There fell a midnight gloom. 
Alas ! no hand could save them ; 

No strength of arm or steel. 
Small hopes were there to soften 

Stern hearts by their appeal. 

They gathered up the children 

All over Hamburg town. 
The pretty bright hued dresses, 

Of blue and red and brown. 
They laid aside and dressed them 

In black, from head to feet. 
Then sent the sad procession 

Down death-doomed Hamburg's street. 

Before Procopius Nasus 

The little mourners came, 
And offered their petition. 

With tears, in Hamburg's name. 
He bade them cease their mourning; 

He turned their grief to joy, 
And laid a feast of cherries 

Before each girl and boy. 



Behold them ! home returning, 

With joyous shouts of glee. 
Each crowned with leaves and cherries; 

All crying : " Victory ! " 
No wonder that the children 

Still hand the custom down. 
And keep the " feast of cherries," 

In dear old Hamburg town. 



SHORTER POEMS 

/^OME read life's vibrant story 
^^ In the heart-throbs of the sea; 
Come into the fragrant garden, 
And gather its blooms with me. 



LIFE 

"DREATH of the Infinite, filling all space, 
"■-' (Marvelous mystery, wonder sublime — ) 

Broad as the universe, aged as Time; 
Germ of all being, condition and place. 

Rose-tints that live in the light of the sun; 

Flowers that breathe out perfume on the breeze; 
Warble of bird-throats, and rivers that run; 

Wave throbs of oceans; wide spreading of trees; 
Flutter and flash of innumerable wings — 

All earth is thrilled with vibrations of life; 

All space is filled with its throbbings and strife; 
All time is pierced with its laughter and stings. 

Breath from the lips of the Infinite face. 

For all eternity breathed into space. 



WHOM OTHERS ENVY 

'npHROUGH years of patient toil and sacrifice 
-■• He climbed Fame's ladder, round by round. 
Nor rested till his hand had grasped the prize 

For which he toiled. Self-made, self-crowned, 
He stood among his lofty dreams, and weighed 
Their worth, together with the price he paid. 
6s 



66 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

A millionaire ! — he bartered love for this, — 

Love binds the wings of him who would arise. 

He rose unfettered. Now with famished eyes 

He gazes on another's Paradise. 
While Memory taunts him with a shy, sweet kiss, 
A frightened, fluttering thing, the first, the last. 
No childish voices echo through his past : 

He wears his laurels, but he paid their price. 



AFFLICTION'S NEED 

"VT'OU come to me with words of comfort — you 
^ Whose Hps ne'er touched the rim of sorrow's cup ; 
From whose glad heart the early morning dew 
The hot breath of despair hath not dried up. 

You bid me bow beneath the chastening rod, 

Whose blight was never on your shoulders laid — 

You standing on the sunlight height of God; 
I crouching in woe's deepest, darkest shade. 

Go, send me one whose bleeding feet have trod 
This narrow way, where Death walks either side; 

Balm falls not from the mighty hand of God, 
But from the touch of Jesus, crucified. 



THE GERM OF LIFE 

/^NE dipped his pen in wisdom's lore, 
^^ And wrote a treatise on " the skies," 

A learned treatise deep and wise. 
Professors marveled at the store 

Of his great knowledge. All of earth 
Conceded mind's superior worth. 



ROSE HARTWICK THO RPE ^y 

One dipped his pen in heart-dews wet. 

And wrote a tender little sonnet, 
So crude that criticism set 

The blight of disapproval on it. 
Death-doomed, it lives, its simple rhyme 
Pulsating in the veins of Time. 
Heart born, it stirs the hearts of men; 

Love laden, charms both youth and age. 
While Time lays rust on learning's pen, 

And dust besprinkles wisdom's page. 



IF WE KNEW 

TT7 E cannot know the weary pain, 
^^ Life's way may lead us through; 
We cannot see the sunny plain 

God's love will guide us to; 
The burning, songless deserts, 

Or the valleys sweet with dew. 
How oft would tears of sorrow 

Change to laughter, if we knew 
The glorious and grand beyond 

That waits us " down the way." 
When from our chained and troubled lives 

The mists have rolled away; 
When through the tears that dim our eyes 

We view the perfect day. 



THE PERFECT TEST 

C WEET are the flowers of springtime; 
^ But the autumn blooms are best. 
Fair are the buds but the ripened fruit 
Is ever the perfect test. 



68 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Dear are the friends of childhood; 

But dearer the friends of age. 
One is a bubble of transient mood; 

The other a printed page. 



The love of youth is a passion; 

The love of age is a crown, 
By the hand of the great Love Master 

On the human brow laid down. 



HOW TO BE HAPPY 

WHAT is the use of fretting 
Over things that have gone wrong? 
Just cultivate forgetting, 

And tune your heart to song. 

Keep the blooms, destroy the thistles. 

You don't want their stings about. 
All that troubles and annoys you, 

You can better live without. 



There is glory in the setting 
Of the sun that follows rain; 

There is science in forgetting; 
If you just forget the pain. 

Yours the pow'r to rise triumphant 
O'er resentment's somber mood; 

To surround your life with blessings. 
By remembering the good. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 69 

MOTHER OF MINE 

'TpHE years are long since I sat at your knee 
■■■ In the far-away olden time, 
Your voice dropping love in the heart of me, 
Blessed mother of mine. 

My sins and mistakes you have blotted out, 

With a love that was all divine; 
No other love has forgiven so much, 

Blessed mother of mine. 

Dear eyes that saw only the good in me ; 

Dear heart that approved of mine, 
What can I bring as a tribute to thee? 

Blessed mother of mine. 



FORGETTING 

TT7"E stand with our faces earthward 
' ^ And watch for the shadows to fall, 
Forgetting that high in the heavens 

The sunlight is shining for all; 
Forgetting that pleasure and laughter 

Are ours to claim as a right; 
Forgetting that morning comes after 

The gloom and the shadow of night. 

We stand 'midst our broken idols, 

And weep with a childlike grief, 
Forgetting that time will bring us 

The balm of a sure relief; 
Forgetting that forth from our sorrows 

Spring many a hopeful ray; 
Forgetting that golden to-morrows 

Are born from the tears of to-day. 



70 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

EASTER BELLS 

"D ING, ye joyous Easter bells ! 

-■^ Stir the heart! awake the nation! 

Thrill the world with glad pulsation! 

Christ, who brought us free salvation; 
Christ, the Saviour for us born — 
From the grave rose Easter morn. 

Ring triumphant, Easter bells ! 

Joy for sad hearts reunited ! 

Joy for wrongs that have been righted ! 

Joy for noble lives indited 

On Time's page by History's pen, 
Lives of nations and of men. 

Ring, O happy Easter bells — 
Ring the birth of spring-time vernal ! 
Ring the birth of souls eternal ! 
Ring the endless love supernal ! 
Ring the dawn of better days. 
Hearts of truth and songs of praise ! 



LIFE'S PEACEFUL TWILIGHT 

A LITTLE brown cot on the hillside; 
-^^ A white village low at its feet: 
From odorous fields, wafted over 
The hill, comes the fragrance of clover, 
When summer is rosy and sweet. 

And up from the beach comes the echo 

Of wrathful old Michigan's roar, 
When the depths of his treacherous water 
Are stirred for wreck, ruin and slaughter, 
And he shakes his mane on the shore. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 71 

And up from the town comes a murmur, 

Faint and far, of life's busy din. 
Only this of its tumult and scurry. 
Of its feverish thirst and its hurry, 

Its grasping for gold, and its sin. 

And methinks that even the echoes 

Tune softer before they arise 
To the cottage where father and mother 
Spend their autumn of life with each other, 

Just under the beautiful skies. 



THE TWO KINGS 

T N the middle hour, 'twixt the dark and the dawn. 

An old king dies. 
And only the wind that sweeps the lawn 

A requiem sighs. 
He has tasted sorrow, has felt disgrace. 
Has known all pleasure, has filled all space. 
Has ruled the world with indulgent hand 
While passion or principle crazed it, and 

Now he is gone. 

'Twixt the dark and the daWn, in the middle hour, 

A king is born. , 
All nations kneel to the frost-white flower 

That greets the morn. 
They vow allegiance, and pardon and prayer 
Like incense rise on the morning air. 
For good or ill shall his name be known? 
This infant king on the dead king's throne. 

This new-born power ! 



72 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

As a meteor flashes across the blue. 

The past is past. 
From the dust of death life springs anew. 

My faith holds fast 
To the creed of eternal love and truth. 
I claim for all time perpetual youth; 
That the germ of good will cast out sin; 
That the angel God planted our hearts within 

Will keep us true. 



HIS SECOND COMING 

A T night on the hills of Judea, 
•^*- The shepherds were watching the sky, 
Where fleecy clouds gathered and drifted, 
With awe on their faces uplifted. 

As th' dawn of God's promise drew nigh. 

They knew not the mode of His coming, 

But thought of the purple and gold 
Of their king in magnificent splendor, 
And their voices grew solemn and tender 
With hope of the blessing foretold. 

Again we are waiting His coming, 

Reaching up to His standard of worth. 
The angel within is expanding. 
And brotherhood's right is demanding 
That evil be banished from earth. 

Again woman heralds His coming: 

Her clear voice is heard in the van, 
Proclaiming the dawn, when all nations 
Shall echo the Great Heart's pulsations, 
And God be reflected in man. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 73 

She guards the Christ-love in her keeping; 
By her are the Christmas chimes rung; 
She rekindles the Yule-fire's glory, 
And all the world over, the story 
Is written and spoken and sung. 

And all the world over, the people 
Are spreading the blessing abroad. 
Are cleansing the depths of the fountain. 
Are climbing the heights of the mountain, — 
Are waiting the coming of God! 



WRECKED 

pWO ships sailed out past the harbor bar 
'■ One beautiful autumn day. 

More precious than all earth's jewels are 
Was the freight they bore away. 

There were fond farewells, and anxious sighs. 

And meeting of loving lips ; 
There were earnest prayers, as from longing eyes 

Sailed the two love- freighted ships. 

The sky was clear, and the sun shone bright. 

When they left the harbor town; 
But th' storm-king rode on the deep that night, 

And one of the ships went down. 

Two human ships set their sail one day. 

On a calm and sunlit sea; 
From the port of home they sailed away; 

One was lost in th' deep. Ah, me ! 



74 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

There were hidden reefs of crime and sin, 
Over which his life was tossed; 

There were unseen tides to draw him in. 
He fell, and his soul was lost ! 

When ships go down in the trackless deep. 
We weep, and the church-bells toll; 

But Heaven mourns and the angels weep. 
When is wrecked the human soul. 



WHO CAN TELL? 

r\ H ! perfect bud with dewy breast, 
^^Half hidden in an emerald vest. 
Will time, and sun, and gentle shower. 
Bring forth from thee a perfect flower? 
Will no rude fingers cast thee down? 
No blight within thy heart be found? 
Sweet bud, thy future seemeth well; 
But who can tell, ah! who can tell? 

Oh ! little child, so pure, so fair, 
From rosy foot to sunny hair; 
Through life's temptation and its sin. 
Wilt thou remain as pure within? 
Nor death destroy the tender vine? 
Nor crime e'er blight God's work divine? 
Sweet child, thy future seemeth well. 
But who can tell, ah ! who can tell ? 

NOTHING LOST 

A TINY seed of little worth. 
Brought by the strong west wind 
From distant parts, fell to the earth 
Where grew none of its kind. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 75 

A thousand years with fleeting tread 

Swept o'er the fair green earth — 
Where is the seed? Forgotten? Dead? 

Who says 'twas little worth? 
A forest, grand, majestic, stands 

Where that small seed was tost, 
For in Time's wide, gigantic hands. 

No single thing is lost. 

No human life ere dawned on earth 

But left its impress here 
For weal or woe. Still lives its worth 

In hearts that held it dear. 
A thought which trembling lips impart; 

A song, perchance a rhyme. 
May thrill the world's great, pulsing heart 

Throughout all future time. 
Though none may know whence came the thought, 

Or what the singer's name, 
Still, since a grand result is wrought, 

That life was not in vain. 



THE TEST OF AGE 

y'T^IS but a day 
-'■ Since here / lay 
My first-born babe beside me. 
All coming time seemed wondrous bright, 
With love's dear hand to guide me. 

No line of care 

On brow or hair 
Had stolen girlhood's glory; 
The years, all bathed in rainbow dew. 
Enchanted, spread before me. 



^(i THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Those golden years, 

Embalmed with tears, 
Fled like the night wind sighing. 
To-day upon my older breast, 
My baby's babe is lying. 

I know not where 

This silver hair 
Has found its threads of sorrow; 
The sunlight here, the shadow there — 
Made up my past's to-morrow. 

With noiseless tread 

The roses fled. 
But I cannot remember 
Just when the summer's golden bloom 
Was merged in gray November. 

Youth's day has passed — 

I wake at last, 
And view my face with wonder. 
A baby's dimpled hand hath torn 
Delusion's veil assunder. 



THE BELLS OF LIFE 

npHE birth bells are ringing a joyous chime 
-'' For a white soul laid in the arms of love 

A spirit flower from the fields above, 
To bloom for a day on the shores of time. 

The wedding bells swing to their gladdest notes, 
Proclaiming the good that the full years bring 
In the circling band of the marriage ring. 

From the brazen depths of their giant throats. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE ^-j 

In the belfry of time the death bells toll 
The entrance to Heaven, the end of earth, 
The death that is only a grander birth, 

As life's bondage falls from the passing soul. 

Birth bells, marriage bells, death bells, you have rung 
The story of life since the world M^as young. 



SONG OF THE THANKFUL TIME 

WE think of Thanksgiving as seeding time — 
In the swelling, unfolding, budding time. 
When the heart of Nature, and hearts of men 
Rejoice in the Earth grown young again. 
We dream of the harvest of field and vine. 
And granaries full at Thanksgiving time. 

We think of Thanksgiving in growing time — 
In the time of flowers, and the vintage prime; 
When the palms of the Year's strong hands are filled 
With fruitage, with grain, and with sweets distilled. 
When the dream of hope is a truth sublime, 
Then our hearts make room for the thankful time. 

We think of Thanksgiving in harvest time — 
In the yielding, gathering, golden time; 
When the sky is fringed with a hazy mist. 
And the blushing maples by frost-lips kissed. 
When the barns are full with the harvest cheer. 
And the crowning, thankful day draws near. 

We think of Thanksgiving as resting time — 
The circle completed is but a chime 
In the song of life, in the lives of men! 
We harvest the toil of our years, and then 
We wait at the gate of the King's highway. 
For the dawn of our soul's Thanksgiving day. 



78 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



THE BIRDS' THANKSGIVING 



/^H! list to the chime, 
^^The exquisite rhyme, 
The warble of birds in the glad spring-time. 



'Neath each feathered coat; 

From each throbbing throat, 

The praise to Jehovah swells, note upon note. 

The storm king at last. 

Has died in the blast, 

And the long, dark night of the year is past. 

While the morning brings. 

On its dewy wings, 

Sweet buds and the promise of better things. 

Lo! the forest rings; 

Not a bird but sings 

Thanksgiving and praise to the King of Kings. 

When the sun shines bright. 

They bask in its light, 

Forgetting the shadow and gloom of night. 

Only man, holds fast. 

With miserly grasp, 

To the storms and wrongs of the moments past. 

He keepeth the smart. 

Deep down in his heart, 

Rejecting God's love and the better part. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 79 

While His praise u-e sing, 

We think of the sting — 

How God hath denied us some valued thing. 

We cherish the wrong 
In our hearts so long, 
It saddens our lives and burdens our song. 

Then sing, birds of spring! 
Praise, warble and sing. 

Till the woods, the hills and the vales shall 
ring. 

Till we catch the strain, 

And a glad refrain. 

Goes forth to our Maker, unshared with pain. 



DRIFTING AWAY 

/^NE by one they are drifting away, 
^^ Over the breast of the silent sea, 
Into the shadow-land, dim and gray, 

They're drifting, drifting away from me; 
And dark and dense are the mists that rise 
Between my lost and my longing eyes. 

How oft' I've stood on that lonely shore; 

The shore that borders the silent sea. 
And heard the dip of the boatmans' oar 

Bearing some dear one away from me; 
Out in the darkness so dense and deep, 
I could only trust, and wait, and weep. 

And yet when the boatman turneth back, 
Bearing my dear ones away from me, 

Ever he leaveth a shining track 
To mark the place where they crossed the sea; 



8o THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

A thought of the loving Heart divine, 
Left in the darkness to comfort mine. 

Hope sweeps away the clouds of despair; 

Faith whispers softly " These lost of thine 
Are safe." Through the gloomy shadows there 

They drift into stronger arms than mine. 
I know that the guiding Power is just; 
All / can do is to wait and trust. 



OCTOBER 

17* AIR buds of promise have yielded their treasure, 
■*• Autumn has crowned all the bountiful year, 
Filling with plenty the o'erflowing measure, 

Glad'ning our hearts with its fruit and its cheer; 

Beautiful, golden October is here. 

Nature may wear garments gorgeous or sober ; 
Snow-drifts or blossoms may cover the earth; 

Spring's dainty buds, or the leaves of October, 
Still we may gather sweet garlands of worth 
From even the gloom of earth's desolate dearth. 



HOW THE FLOWERS CAME 

^'T^WAS seed time in Heaven, the angel whose care 

-■' Is for Eden's blossoms; that angel more fair 
Than all her fair sisters, twin spirits of air, 
That angel whose footsteps wherever they tread. 
Spring up into blossoms, blue, yellow and red; 
That angel whose teardrops, wherever they fall, 
Give birth to white lilies, the fairest of all; 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 8i 

That angel whose breath is the perfume of flowers. 
Had spent all the jewel-gemmed, paradise hours 
Of the roseate morn where beauties unfold 
In calyx of crimson and purple and gold. 

Beside the great portals she paused and looked through, 
Down, down the vast distance, of star-lighted blue. 
Beheld the gray rocks without beauty or bloom, 
And sighed for earth's children away in the gloom. 

" No beauty or bloom hath the children of woe ; 
No brightness ; no sweetness, my hand will bestow 
One Heaven-born seed for their gardens below." 
She said as she loosened her girdle to find 
One seed which was fairest, and best of its kind. 
Her eager hand trembled, the girdle slipped through 
Her rosy-tipped fingers, and down through the blue, 
Down, down the vast distance, her golden seeds flew. 

Some caught in the crevice of rocks, others fell 
In lone desert places, by way-side and dell; 
On hills and in valleys; in forest and glen. 
To gladden and brighten the journeys of men. 

At th' portals of Heaven, with sorrowful face, 
The little flow'r angel looks out into space, 
In search of her treasures. Her tears as they fall, 
Find all her lost seedlings, and water them all. 



A BETTER TOY 

'Tp WAS Christmas morn. Our baby boy 
•*• With conscious pride displayed his toy — 
A painted bugle. " See, oh, see ! 
What my good Santa Claus bringed me; 
I's full of glad as I can be." 



82 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Scarce had the happy words been said 
When he beheld his brother's sled. 
" Did Santa Claus bring that to you ! — 
A pretty sled all painted blue? 
He's mean as he can be. Boo-hoo ! " 

He flung his bugle on the floor, 
He stamped his feet, he raised a roar. 
Woe's pall encompassed our wee boy; 
Life held for him no more of joy 
Since Bertie owned a better toy. 

The Lord drops blessings in our way, 
Some little good for ev'ry day; 
We count them o'er in happy mood. 
With thankful hearts, just as we should. 
And call the royal Giver good. 

Soon we behold, like that wee boy. 

Our brother has a better toy, 

Then turned to gall is life's rich wine, 

With moody envy we repine, 

And scorn all lesser gifts divine. 



GOD'S WAY IS BEST 

P AST the portals of to-day, 

-*■ Something waits us down the way; 

Joys, perhaps, for you and me. 
Some fond dream to realize. 
Waits for us, a glad surprise; 

We may guess but cannot see. 

Just beyond the misty screen 
Of the vail Time drops between. 
Something waits us, joy or woe, 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 83 

Throbs of heartache, thrills of bliss, 
Echoes of a parting kiss. 

Life or death. We do not know. 

Wait, thou shrouded mystery ! 
It is well we cannot see; 

It is well we do not know. 
Life and love are ours to-day. 
God, in mercy, hides the way 

We must tread in joy or woe. 



THANKSGIVING 

TTTE bring our heart's best offering, 
^^ As earth grows brown and sere, 
To lay before the mighty King, 
Who rules the rolling year. 

The winter months brought no alarms; 

Spring came with gladsome feet; 
And summer yielded all her charms, 
To crown the year complete. 

No sound of pestilential tread; 

No common cause of fear; 
No war; no voice of panic dread 

Throughout the fleeting year. 

Oh, passing year ! Oh, golden year ! 

May this we soon shall greet. 
Be just as rich in loving cheer. 
As perfect and complete. 



84 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



WHERE IS HEAVEN? 

tt\T7HAT is Heaven?" 

VV " Child, how can I tell 

Of the beauty that rests on the * City of God?' 
My eyes have not seen it, my feet have not trod 
Its golden paved streets set with jewels whose worth 
Outshine and outvalue the jewels of earth. 
And what is Heaven? I know only this: 
'Tis the birthplace of glory; the essence of bliss." 

" Where is Heaven ? " 

" Dear, how do I know ? 
We gaze into space through the blue, throbbing air. 
Sun-crowned and star-gemmed, and we say, * It is 

there.' 
Above and beyond us, more high, and more high, 
God's palace, whose floor is our beautiful sky. 
And where is Heaven? I know only this: 
'Tis the hope of all ages, wherever it is." 



TWO DAYS 

Y^ESTERDAY 

The trees stood nude against the sky. 

Snow-bound lay field and meadow. 
The flowers slept; the hills were bare; 
The sunshine smiled some other where. 

For Winter walks in shadow. 
To-day 

The green reeds bending o'er the brook 

Form cosy bowers for Undine, 
The flow'rs awake, and ev'rywhere 
Warm glints of glory fill the air. 
For Spring calls back the sunshine. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 85 



WOMAN'S LIFE 

A FAIRY tale that is newly told, 
•^^ Meadows hugging the rivers rim; 
Meadows with blossoms manifold, 

Cares and pain in the distance dim. 
And skies that are gold. 

An old romance that is sweet and new, 
Draughts of pleasure and heart in tune. 

Passionate friendships fond and true 
Blossoms and songsters; month of June, 
And skies that are blue. 



A book that's finished and laid away, 
Withered flow'rs on a broken stem. 

Twilight kissing the lids of day, 
A time of peace; life's calm amen, 
And skies that are gray. 



A TIME OF PEACE 

A N aged one watches th' glow in the west, 
"^^ And smiles. Her passion of living is past. 

She sits in the twilight of life at last. 
Her labors completed; her heart at rest. 

Awaiting the hour of her soul's release; 

Her soul burned white in the furnace of pain. 
She beholds life's day on the hillsides wane. 

And the dawn of an endless day increase. 



86 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



LOVE TRIUMPHS 

'TpHE sun shines over the storm; 
"*- The rose sleeps under the snow; 
The cold and the tempest are working harm 
In the year's long night of woe. 

The sun is true to the rose; 

The rose is true to the sun. 
He will pierce the depths of the winter snows, 

And wed her when spring has come. 

The bitter north wind may blow; 

It can never bring them harm; 
For the rose is trusting under the snow, 

And th' sun rides over the storm. 



THE SWEETEST FLOWER 

5'T^IS not the bud, though wondrous fair, 

-■- Nor yet the full-blown, regal rose; 
But that rare charm, half seen, half guessed, 
Unfolding from her spicy breast 
A subtile fragrance on the air; 
A pink flush where her sweets repose. 
And slow unveil in modest bliss, 
Wooed by the sun's warm, loving kiss. 

'Tis not the child, though dimpled fair. 
Nor yet the vroman's thoughtful face 
That wins most hearts. 'Tis that dear flush 
On girlhood's cheek like sunset's blush. 
The bloom of heaven that lingers there, 
And crowns her with angelic grace. 
Her clear, pure eyes behold afar 
The glory of Hope's gate ajar. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 87 

God grant this perfect opening flower, 
May blossom full without a blight; 
May wear her crown of womanhood 
As something noble, grand and good; 
May spend her strength in righteous power, 
With heart-strings ever tuned aright. 
Then shall God's presence, like a dove, 
O'ershadow her with wings of love. 



AN OPEN SECRET 

T AUGH, my young daughters, and keep your hearts 
^ gay — 

The secret of happiness lies 
In holding the sunshine and driving away 

The shadows that sometimes arise. 
Remember this truth in your childhood years — 
That laughter is better than tears. 

This to you, maidens — 'tis sunshine that wins. 

The light of a true loving heart — 
Shining out through eyes that doubt never dims — 

Is the secret of beauty's art. 
'Tis also the secret of love, my dears. 
For smiles are more potent than tears. 



Better than beauty that fades from the face, 

This elixir of wondrous art; 
It glorifies age with magical grace. 

And warms the deep fount of the heart. 
No charm so able to hold and to win 
As love-light that shines from within. 



88 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



DEEDS ARE THOUGHTS 

"p\ ON'T think it, my dear. Do not open 
■*^ Your heart's sacred chalice to sin; 
Don't unbar the portal, vain hoping 

That only the thought will creep in. 
Deeds are thoughts given voice. From th' center 

Of action they leap past control; 
Let only white messengers enter; 

Stand guard at the door of your soul. 



A NOBLE WARRIOR 

"^rOBLE is he whose moral strength 
-^^ Beats down the walls of wrong; 
Whose white-souled manhood teaches man 

A purer, grander song; 
Who flings truth's stately portals wide 
That others may come in. 
Most noble he of conquerers 

Who conquers self and sin. 



THOUGHTS 

'TpHE heart is a garden, and never a seed 
"■- Dropped into its fertile mold, 
But grows and grows, be it thistle or rose; 

Weed or blossom, its leaves unfold. 
Our thoughts are the seeds that grow to be 
The plants that shall live through eternity. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 89 

A MOTHER'S WISH 

T ITTLE daughter, fair and sweet, 
•*— ' Neither child nor woman, 
Like a lily, tall and slender; 
Like a snow-drop, pure and tender; 
Like a daisy; like a rose; 
Like the dearest flow'r that grows, 
Pure and fair and human. 

May life's journey ever lead 

Into peaceful valleys, 
Where the brooklet ripples over 
Pebbled beds, past fields of clover. 
Singing birds and humming bees, 
Meadows green, and leafy trees. 

Where the sunlight dallies. 

Let thy brothers climb the heights 

Mad with life's ambition; 
Let them run the race before thee, 
Keep thy charm of woman's glory 
All unsullied, pure as now. 
May life crown thy woman's brow 

With its best fruition. 



AMONG HER FLOWERS 

T SEE a window hedged about 

-■■ With growing greenness flecked with bloom 

A summer window in the room. 
While Winter holds his court without. 
Begonia disks like shells, pink-tipped; 



90 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Some taller plants in browns and reds; 

Bright fuchsia bells with drooping heads ; 
Budding geraniums, scarlet-Hpped, 
And hovering about the place 
My mother's face. 

A waxen calla lily tall 

Her hands caress with tender touch; 

A bit of smilax — 'tisn't much, 
But her fond eyes they compass all 
With loving glance, and her dear face 

Is flushed with summer's beauty, though 

Life's winter crowns her with its snow. 
Oh ! stately flow'r of regal grace, 
No blossom in your window there 
Is half as fair. 



KEEP THE HEART YOUNG 

T AUGH, for the world is your cradle; 
•■^ Little one, laugh and play. 
The dome of your skies is mother's sweet eyes 
And life is the month of May. 

Play, for the world is your playground, 

Flow'rs and birds are in tune. 
Love waits to greet you; fame runs to meet you, 

For Hfe is the month of June. 

Work, for the world is your work-shop; 

Keep step to the hopeful tune 
Through th' heat of the day, and never once stray 

Beyond the meadows of June. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 91 



EASTER LINES 

AWAKEN, sweet flowers! 
•^*- The snow in the valley has melted at last, 
And the desolate night of the year is past; 
The ice-chains are broken; the robins are singing. 
Awake to the call of the Easter bells ringing. 

Awaken, oh, heart! 
In bondage of sin thou hast slumbered so long; 
Arise in the gladness and rapture of song; 
Arise in the beauty of nature's adorning; 
Come forth in thy strength on this glad Easter morn- 
ing. 



THE GREATEST GOOD 

'T^HE sun beholds no shadow, for his rays 
-■■ Dispel the darkness. Where-so-ere he turns 

The glory of his own reflection burns; 
Night flees before the splendor of his gaze. 

He smiles, and ev'ry gloomy shade smiles back ! 
His warmth, far reaching, touches hidden springs 
Of dormant good, and all earth's sleeping things 

Expand and blossom in his shining track. 

With lance of light he pierces forest glooms; 

His kisses speed the snow-bound blossoms birth. 

So love, God's gift to man of priceless worth. 
Touches the heart, and it expands and blooms. 



92 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



WHO KNOWS? 

XylTHO knows — who can tell where the summer 
^ ^ goes ? 

With dew-drenched garments and sweet-scented 
hair. 
Where is the life that went out of the rose? 

The music, the sunlight, the laughter — where? 
Who knows? 

What knowledge reveals where the freed soul goes? 

When released from its prison-house of pain. 
To the realm of light or the place of woes; 

To the golden heights or the shadowed plain. 
Who knows? 

At the voice of knowledge all gates unclose 
Except the portals of life and of death. 

It were vain to ask where the spirit goes. 
The secret of giving and hushing breath 

God knows. 



THE BETROTHAL 

'npHE stars peeped forth with laughing eyes; 
, ■•' The happy moon looked down 

From Night's great jeweled crown; 
The breezes whispered to the trees; 
The river told it to the seas; 
The sea reached up and kissed the skies; 
All Nature thrilled with glad surprise. 

For once within this life of ours 
We pass through Eden's perfumed bowers. 
The children of a banished race 
Stand once within that holy place, 
And sip its nectar, cull its flowers. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 93 

Hath even Paradise a bliss 

More dear than love's betrothal kiss? 



LILIES OF FAITH 

WE stood in youth's fragrant meadows 
Where the tall faith lilies grow. 
The sunny slopes of the hillside 

With pink trust blooms were aglow, 
And down in the mossy hollows, 
Hope fluttered its plumes of snow. 

Our hearts were drunken with gladness, 
In time with the katy-did's tune; 

The flowers made love; the bold cowslip 
Touched lips with the clover bloom; 

The heart of the rose unfolded, 
'Neath the laughing eyes of June. 

The future swung out before us. 

All golden from rim to rim, 
And the pink trust blooms went marching 

With the lilies tall and prim. 
While over them all Love beckoned, 

And gladly we followed him. 

'Tis twenty years and it seemeth 

But a golden summer's day, 
For Love has laughed at the shadows. 

And danced on the sunbeams gay. 
And the lilies of faith were with us. 

And the trust blooms, all the way. 



94 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



HER FIRST LONG DRESS 

T LOST my beautiful baby 

In the dim years long ago, 
But the days and the months that stole her 

Crept by with footsteps slow. 
They snatched from her cheek a dimple, 

And into her laughing eyes 
They sent the grave, sweet wonder 

Of the knowledge that maketh wise. 
And her golden head grew higher 

And darker. I know full well, 
Some time in the past I lost her. 

But the hour I can not tell. 

I have lost my little daughter 

In one tiny moment's space. 
She is just the same in statue; 

Just the same dear, rosy face; 
Just the darling that I folded 

In my arms and to my heart. 
But a skillful needle stole her 

With the pow'r of fashion's art. 



TOURISTS 

npHEY stood by the west sea while sunset 
-*• Made ready its winter surprise. 
" Was there ever such blue ? " she murmured, 

" Such wonderful blue, as these skies ? " 
" Such blue," he replied. " No, never, 

'Tis the gateway to Paradise, 
Through radiant blue, to the heart of you." 

And he smiled in her lifted eyes. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 95 

" Oh, the charm of the southwest winter ! 

There is naught on earth to compare 
With this cloth of gold on the sea unrolled; 

This dust of gold in the air." 
" The gold," and his voice grew tender, 

"There is no such gold, I swear; 
Such marvelous gold, on my heart unrolled." 

And he touched his lips to her hair. 

" See yon crimson path leading upward 

To the portal of heaven I wis. 
Was ever a red so rare?" she said, 

" Was ever a red like this ? " 
" Oh, red of the heart's deep fountain ! 

Oh, rapturous altar of bliss ! 
There is no such red in the world," he said. 

As he laid on her lips a kiss. 



LOVE'S AVOWAL 

"pvEAR heart of my heart, throbbing close to my 
■*-' breast 

With fondest and truest pulsation, 
List while I repeat the old story, my sweet, 

In the language of love's adoration! 

Oh, life of my life, all the purest and best 
Of my manhood warms in thy presence, 

No unworthy part of my life or my heart 
Can share in the sweet of love's essence. 

Pure soul of my soul, is there aught in my past 
I would blush for your eyes to discover? 

You have reared my throne, with your fair hands, my 
own. 
You have crowned me your king, your true lover. 



96 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Oh, pure heart and true, all my future for you 
Shall read clear as the spring's crystal water, 

Thou lily-white dove, in the arms of my love 
I will shield you, my fair little daughter. 



THE SWEET OLD STORY 

A MONG the shadows golden 
■^~^ Reflected from the sea, 
He told the story olden, 

But it was new to me. 
So wonderous sweet the story 

I stood with down-cast eyes. 
While earth seemed filled with glory; 

Twin light of Paradise. 

The story may be olden, 

It never can be old, 
No more than cowslips golden 

Can change to coins of gold. 
For lovers are but mortals. 

And maids with down-cast eyes 
Will enter at the portals 

Of earth's fair Paradise. 

ASSURANCE 

TTERE'S a grain of comfort, dearest, 
■*^ When your hopes in ruin lie ; 
When the black storm cloud is nearest 
It will soonest pass you by. 

Foam that brims the cup of pleasure 

Vanishes like froth of wine. 
But the best is in the measure 

Free from dross and genuine. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 97 

Take this grain of comfort, dearest, 

When your heart is tempest-tost. 
Trouble's wave brings true worth nearest; 

God's great truth is never lost. 



NEPENTHE 

A S little ones just loosed from mother's arm, 
^^ Bruised by the fall their fait' ring footsteps make, 
Return that she may kiss away the harm, 
And gently cure the ache. 

So we, escaping from God's mighty hand 

Stumble and fall where snares of sin have lain, 
And God's great love by His great mercy fanned 
Forgives, and heals the pain. 



LINNET 

T INNET, Linnet, wait a minute, 
■*-' Tell your tale of rapture; 
How the glory and the glow 
Of life's happy overflow 

Thou hast learned to capture. 

Sing it, sing it, little Linnet; 

Fill me with the glory 
Of the universal good; 
Love and faith and brotherhood; 

The redemption story. 



98 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



A CITY CANON 

'^ ARROW, dim and deep it is; 
•*-^ Heart of the metropolis. 
Parallel its walls arise 
Many storied to the skies. 
Through its veins with ceaseless din 
Human tides flow out and in. 
All of life is mirrored here, 
Passion's fever, cringing fear, 
Love and hate, a jostling throng 
Sweeps the canon's length along, 
Poverty and avarice. 
Heart of the metropolis. 



A TOAST 

TJ ERE'S to the days that slipped into the past 

"*" From the rosary of time. 

And we'll drink to the days that are crowding fast 

With music of hopeful chime. 
Farewell to yesterday's pleasures and stings, 
Welcome to-morrow whatever it brings. 



BEAUTY 

" Beauty is its own excuse for being." 

Emerson. 

'npHE dear wild flowers that bloom apace, 
-'■ In nature's sweet disorder ; 
That lift the beauty of each face 
To cheer life's rugged border. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 99 

The sun's good-night, in rain-bow hghts 

The western sky adorning; 
The glory of the dawn that writes 

Across the east "good-morning." 

The beauty on a thousand hills 

That Nature's charm discloses; 
Her emerald meadows, singing rills; 

The marvel of her roses; 

Mountains that lift their rugged brows, 

And worship God Eternal; 
The human face that love endows 

With grace almost supernal — 

Whatever is God's love hath wrought 

With purpose grand, far-seeing, 
And beauty is — oh, happy thought — 

" Its own excuse for being." 



TRUTH IN FICTION 

A N author writes. As the pages glide 
-^^ From under his busy pen, 
His brain creations become his pride. 

Endowed with love's passion; then 
He draws the veil from their hearts aside. 
Reveals to the gaze of men 
The aching and throbbing. 
The moaning and sobbing. 
The agonized waiting when hope is deferred. 
And smiles as the story grows, word upon word. 

He leads them on to their destiny; 

He knows that the coming bHss 
Of the perfect " final " yet to be, 

Grows out of despair like this; 



100 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

That present pain and its misery- 
Add sweet to the waiting kiss; 

That in life, or story, 

The summit of glory, — 
Those highlands which bask in Love's triumphant 

reign, — 
Are reached through the lowlands and meadows of 

pain. 



WOMAN 

A QUEEN in her beautiful garments, 
^■^ She stands on the ramparts to-day 
To herald the dawn, and the cerements 
Of self have been folded away. 

She stands with the prophets and sages; 

She speaks, and her tongue is a flame 
Leaping forth from fires which for ages 

Have slumbered in silence and shame. 

Her feet have come up from the valleys, 
They are climbing the mountains of lights 

At her call th' world rouses and rallies; 
Bearing arms in the battle of right. 

She treads on the serpent that stung her, 
And grinds out its life 'neath her heel; 

She grapples with sorrows that wrung her, 
Converting her woe into weal. 

Made strong through her slaughtered affections 
She comes, with her sons by her side. 

An angel of pow'r and protection. 
Their beacon-light, leader and guide. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE loi 

No longer a timorous being, 

To cringe and to cry 'neath the rod; 

But quick to divine and far-seeing, 
She hastens the purpose of God. 



LABOR VERSUS CAPITAL 

OIX merry cobblers all day long, 
^ Worked at their trade with jest and song. 
They all received the same small pay, 
And five spent theirs on Saturday. 

Just how, or where we do not know; 
For better dress, for greater show. 
For rum and beer and, well — perchance — 
Amusements that are viewed askance. 

They jeered their friend who, well content, 
Received more dollars than he spent. 
They called him miserly, and more 
Derided the patched clothes he wore. 

The years sped on with swifter tread. 
And now a dozen more have fled. 
Five grumbling cobblers all day long 
Work at their trade and nurse their wrong. 

Their old companion owns the store, 
A home, a pretty wife — still more — 
He rides in comfort while they walk. 
And plan, and scowl, and talk and talk. 

In accents dire these jealous men 
Declare that he should share with them. 
What right has Capital to hold 
From Labor's grasp its treasured gold? 



102 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



NO PERFECT WORK BUT GOD'S 

*'T WILL build," said the architect, "mansions more 

-■• fair. 

Marble columned, and stately and grand, 
Mammoth domed, perfection base, turret and stair, 
And the winds the fame of the builder shall bear 

To the uttermost parts of the land." 



" I will paint," said the artist, " a picture sublime, 

Rainbow tinted with shades that are quaint; 
The world shall bow down to this picture of mine, 
For I'll dip my brush in the colors of time, 
And the lights of eternity paint." 



" I will write," said the poet, " a beautiful song 

In the glory and strength of my might. 
I will liberate truth. The shackles of wrong 
Shall be broken, and sin, red-handed and strong 
Shall be slain by the words I shall write." 



'Neath the broad dome of heaven's encircling blue. 

Sculptured columns reared stately and vast. 
And the architect smiled as the palace grew. 
But the finger of Time pierced those columns through, 
While the mountains, God's buildings, stood fast. 



The picture lacked something which glowed on the 
breast 

Of the sea when the sunset unrolled. 
The best of the poem was never expressed, 
Man's grandest achievement is dross at the best, 

Compared with God's labor of gold. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 103 

TRUTH 

'npALL and fair, a stately presence 
-■■ Truth, the white-souled, leadeth on, 
Saint and sinner follow after 

Up the golden hills of dawn; 
Prejudice with all its vices 

Marks the path their feet have trod; 
Wrongs like fleeting phantoms, vanish 

In the clear search-light of God. 



PROGRESS 

'T^HROUGH labyrinths of error and of wrong 
■■' Comes gentle Progress, calm and patient-eyed ; 
With tireless feet, with purpose brave and strong; 
Slow plodding upward to the light and song 
The crown the cross where self is crucified. 

Her steps are glorified along the way 
By those who aided in her work divine. 

Martyr, reformer, poet, artist they ! 

He who hath builded nobly in his day 
Is mighty conqueror of self and time. 

Whenever Progress planned some grand advance, 

A mind gigantic answered to her call, 
And came to do her will with book or lance. 
Inspired and strengthened by her hopeful glance, 
On battle field or in the senate hall. 

In ancient times she needed strength of arm; 

Courage and brawn to battle for her sake. 
Man traversed seas of gore to conquer harm; 
Woman was weak and quick to take alarm. 

For life was hers to give but not to take. 



104 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Now is the time when gentleness joins hands 

With strength, and woman hastens to the van; 
No longer cringing 'neath the iron bands 
Of fate, but with a lofty purpose stands 
Co-worker and co-warrior with man. 



She may not wield the sword, but she may hold 

The public heart, and sing the sweeter song 
That conquers, not by strength, but pow'r to fold 
And chain desire within its heart of gold, — 
Thus breaking down the citadel of wrong. 



For smiles more potent are than despot creed. 

And bands of love more strong than chains of steel 
Force cannot drive that which a child may lead; 
In woman's heart is born the world's great need, 

And she the mighty secret will reveal. 



DREAMS 

T SEE her sometimes in my dream, 
■■• Her brown hair flowing free, 
A slender girl with eager face. 
The girl / used to be. 
She stands beside a shady stream 
And dreams with troubled brow. 
Her thought outreaching years to greet 
The woman I am now. 
She reared her castles, beam on beam, 
Built better than she knew. 
For in time's circle one by one 
Her best dreams all came true. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 105 



WHY? 

THE joy-bells are ringing; 
The song birds are singing 
The roses are bringing 

Exquisite perfume. 
Life gives what we seek for, 

Why ever make room 
For heartache and crosses, 
For trouble and losses, 
When we may choose rather 

Its songsters and bloom. 



RIO GRANDE 

At Painted Cave, Texas 

GRIM, rugged and steep are thy banks, 
Rio Grande, 
Their sculptured walls 'rise 
Rock-ribbed 'neath the skies. 
Without verdure or bloom, 
Like some gigantic tomb. 
Carved, fashioned, and set in this desolate land. 

Thy waters are somber and gray 
Rio Grande, 

Reflecting the frown 

Of rocks, looking down, 

And a calm sky as gray, 

And as solemn as they, 
No beauty in all this wide desolate land. 



io6 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Remember'st the time, ages past, 
Rio Grande? 

When volcanic swells 

Cast these fossil shells 

From their bed 'neath the wave. 

Were the walls of this cave 
Painted thus, by a real or invisible hand? 

Beyond this drear waste is a sea, 
Rio Grande, 
All dimpling it lies, 
'Neath the bluest of skies. 
Thou shalt find it at last. 
When the desert is past, 
The bright summer sea, with its flow'r gemmed 
strand. 



E'en thus is the life that we live, 
Rio Grande, 

Rock, desert, and plain. 

Care, worry and pain. 

But when our glad eyes 

Behold Heaven's surprise, 
Our hearts will forget all this desolate land. 



THE LAST NIGHT 

San Antonio, Texas, March 6th, 1836 

'T^HEY stand in the shadow which darkly falls 
^ When the Day-god sleeps in his glory, 
Shut in by the gloom of these Alamo walls, 
Those heroes who live in Fame's story. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 107 

Hunters and planters and miners are they, 

Giant-builded and iron-hearted, 
Unconquered, undaunted, they stand at bay 

When their last faint hope has departed. 

They are stern of visage and dark of brow, 
With the mist in their eyes grown tender. 

For memory " troubles the waters " now 
In the heart of each brave defender. 

There are dear wife hands reaching out to them, 
There are sweet childish voices calling; 

Love pierces the hearts of these stalwart men 
As they stand in the night-shades falling. 

With bare, bowed heads in the hush and the gloom 
'Mid their sad regrets and their sorrow. 

They wait for the flush of the " day of doom," 
To crimson these walls on the morrow. 

Without are curses that burden the night. 

Where the enemy fumes and rages. 
Within they are kindling fires to light 

Texas homes through all coming ages. 

O, thou blood-bought shrine of a nation's pride ! 

Thou altar of love and of glory ! 
Thou Alamo ! swept by a crimson tide, 

Live ever in song and in story ! 



CALIFORNIA 

npHE world pays tribute to thy magic charm, 
-■■ Thou sun-crowned queen beside the western sea, 
And lays its treasures in thy outstretched arm. 
In time of peace, in time of war's alarm, 
A Nation looks to thee. 



io8 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Thy strength is in thy freedom. Free from creed 
That binds the pow'rs and blinds the soul of man, 
Reaching kind hands to human hearts that bleed, 
Quick to perceive and meet another's need; 
To execute and plan. 

Thine are the wilds no man hath ever trod; 

Thine are the vales of plenty, thine the sea. 
Standing erect beneath the chastening rod, 
And reaching upward through the mists to God. 

The world hath need of thee. 



SAN DIEGO * 

T OW swaying pepper boughs; blooms of magnolia 
^-^ Summer and sunshine and roses galore; 

Song of the mocking bird, 

Morning and evening heard; 
Murmurous waves breaking white on the shore. 

Fogs marching up from the breast of the ocean; 
Languorous moons sailing into the west; 

Fruitage of tree and vine. 

All the year summertime; 
Harbor of safety and haven of rest. 



LA JOLLA* 

'T^HE land's-end and here of rugged mould, 
"■■ Fronts grim and grand the tossing sea. 
Its rock-strewn ledges, fold on fold. 

Withstand the water's battery; 
Its caverns where the waves make moan 
Are spiked with columns carved from stone. 



California. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 109 

Those caves, dark-mouthed, mysterious, 

Ingulf the eddying, swirling tide, 
And beat their prey delirious. 

With dash and lash from side to side 
Through corridor and vaulted dome. 
Then hurl it forth in froth and foam. 

Behold this rock's storm-chiseled face: 

His giant arms that seaward reach 
To bar its progress. See the grace 

Of yonder crescent-curving beach 
Where bathers sport and children play. 
From June to June the year's long day. 



THE CALIFORNIA POPPY 

"C^LOWER of the west-land with calyx of gold, 
^ Swung in the breeze over lace-woven sod; 

Filled to the brim with the glory of God, 
All that its wax-petaled chalice can hold. 
This was the birth of it: On the brown plain. 
The sun dropped a kiss in the footprint of rain. 



SUNSET ON THE PACIFIC COAST 

pROM his high throne the mighty Ruler of the days, 
•*■ Bends down and downward to the fond embrace 
Of Ocean's arms. Upon her bosom lays 

The glory of his bright, enraptured face, 
And flushes all her being with his gaze. 



no THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



A PROPHECY 

SWING wide ye glad portals of promise, 
Swing wide to the millions who wait, 
With songs on their lips, and with curses. 
Close crowding Truth's luminous gate. 

They come with their burdens, these people. 

Fanatic and martyr and saint. 
With language profane and prophetic. 

In garments rich, simple and quaint. 

They come from the populous city. 
From village and mountain and wood. 

Though each is a victim of evil, 
Still all are the children of good. 

They lived in the garden of Eden; 

They were Christian and heathen of old, 
Their hearts beat the record of ages, 

In throbbings fierce, timid and bold. 

They come with centuries of sorrow. 
Of wrongs unrequited and vast; 

They are weighted with superstitions 
Handed down through all ages past. 

They press their inheritance vanward. 

In the glow of the eventide; 
But who shall be first to enter in 

When the portals of Truth stand wide? 

No red-handed hero of battle; 

No Nero; no monster of greed; 
No hypocrite hiding dishonor 

Behind the bulwark of his creed. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE in 

Neither the slave nor the weakling, 

For slavery and weakness are sin, 
But he who hath drawn from the fullness 

Of God's love shall first enter in. 

No soft, yielding goddess of pleasure, 
But she who is steadfast and strong. 

Whose heart is the safeguard of nations ; 
Whose voice is the slayer of wrong. 

For love in the true heart of woman 

Is working redemption at length. 
And th' children she bore in her weakness 

Shall rejoice with her in her strength. 

A grander inheritance waiteth 

In th' fullness of rapture to come, 
For when we have climbed to the highlands 

The voice of the past shall be dumb. 

Already the leaven is working; 

A purer religion is taught — 
The glorious gospel of freedom; 

The grand education of thought. 

No longer will manhood, degraded, 
Bow down beneath appetite's chain; 

No longer will womanhood suffer 
In bondage of custom and shame. 

But each shall be strong for the other. 
Life's labor and pleasure to share; 

The curse will be lost in the blessing; 
Thanksgiving will supersede prayer. 



112 THORPE'S POETICAL WORKS 



A PRAYER 

npHE lights are dim, I cannot see, 
-■• Truth seemeth false, the false seems true, 
Dear Lord reveal the path to me; 
Teach me, dear Lord, the thing to do. 

Guide thou my tongue in ev'ry place; 

With Love divine make known the way ; 
Grant me the blessing of thy grace; 

Teach me, dear Lord, the thing to say. 



RHYMES FOR THE CHILDREN 

/^ OME with me wee lad and lassie, 
^ Out into the fields of May, 
Where the happy birds are singing; 

Where flow'r faces crowd the way. 
And I'll tell you pretty stories 

All the live-long Springtime day. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 115 

THE QUEEN'S GIFT 

TXT'HERE English daisies blossom, and English robins 

sing, 
When all the land was fragrant beneath the feet of 

Spring. 
Two little sisters wandered together, hand in hand, 
Along the dusty highway, their bare feet soiled and 

tanned. 

'Twas not a childish sorrow that dimmed their eyes 

with tears; 
Their little hearts were burdened, with grief beyond 

their years. 
The bright-eyed daisies blossomed in valley and in 

glen; 
The robins sang their sweetest, spring smiled, but not 

for them. 

Beneath the trees of Whitehall, within their shadows 

brown; 
From out the royal palace the queen came walking 

down. 
She saw the children standing together, side by side, 
And gazing down with pity she asked them why they 

cried. 

" Dear Lady," said the eldest, " my little sister Bess 
And I, have come together, a hundred miles, I guess. 
Sometimes the roads were dusty and sometimes they 

were green. 
We got so tired and hungry. We want to see the 

queen. 

" Our mother's sick, dear lady. She cries 'most all the 

day. 
We hear her telling Jesus when she thinks we're at 

play; 



ii6 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

She tells him all about it, how, when King James was 

king, 
We were so rich and happy and had most every thing. 

"We had our own dear father, at home beside the 

Thames ; 
But father went to battle because he loved King James. 
And then things were so different, I cannot tell you 

how — 
We haven't any father, nor any nice things now. 

"Last night our mother told us they'd take our home 

away. 
And leave us without any, because she couldn't pay. 
So, then, we came together right through the meadows 

green, 
We prayed for God to help us, and take us to the 

queen. 

" Because our mother told us that, many years ago. 
The queen was James' little girl, and, lady, if 'twas so 
I know she'll let us keep it — our home beside the 

Thames, 
For father went to battle because he loved King James. 

" If we should have to leave it, I'm sure our mother'd 

die. 
For there's no place to go to — no place but in the 

sky," 
Her simple story finished she gazed up in surprise 
To see the lovely lady with tear-drops in her eyes. 

And when the English daisies, dew-damp had gone to 

rest; 
And when the English robins had sought each downy 

nest, 
A carriage, such as never had passed that way before, 
Let down two little children beside the widow's door. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 117 

They brought the weeping mother a letter from the 

queen, 
Her royal seal was on it, and folded in between, 
A slip of paper, saying; "The daughter of King James, 
Gives to these little children their home beside the 

Thames." 

CRIPPLE JOE 

TXEAR lady, I'm so glad you've come 
■*-^ To visit little " Cripple Joe," 
I'll tell you all about my home. 

And all the things you want to know. 
That small, three-cornered place of blue, 

Is all I've seen of God's great sky. 
Sometimes the round-faced moon looks through, 

And smiles and nods and hurries by. 

Beyond the window is a place 

Where, once a day, the sun looks down. 
I reach my hand across the space — 

See ! how his lips have kissed it brown. 
The dear warm Sun ! he comes to me 

To fill my little world with light; 
How glorious the hills must be. 

When my one corner is so bright. 

This is my flower. I've never seen 

The meadows gay with golden bloom. 
But just this little spot of green. 

Brings meadow gladness to my room. 
Ben brings me treasures ev'ry day. 

Those pretty pictures on the wall; 
This broken vase; that bit of clay — 

I can't begin to tell you all. 

I see the big world through his eyes; 

Such beautiful and wondrous things, 
He's like a book, so good and wise — 

He's like an angel — when he sings. 



ii8 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Enough to eat? Yes, lady, we 

Have such good suppers ev'ry night 
When Ben comes home. But, sometimes, he 

Don't seem to have much appetite. 

Most always there's an orange peel 

For desert, or an apple core; 
Sometimes a whole one, round and real ! 

What could a fellow ask for more? 
I'm happy, for God bids me stay 

Right here with Ben. It's better so. 
I have all that I need each day. 

And know all that God gives to know. 

My sky might never seem so blue; 

My blossom never seem so sweet. 
If once I saw the grander view, 

Or meadow blossoms kissed my feet. 
If once I ran like other boys. 

My crippled feet would taunt me then. 
I do not care for other joys. 

It is enough that I have Ben. 

You say that you've adopted Ben — 

He's — such — a — prince — of — boys, and — he 
Sent you up here to find our den? 

And me too — you've adopted me? 
And there are whole skies full of blue 

For us, and meadow blossoms sweet? 
Whole oranges, and apples too? 

And some great man will cure my feetf 

I've watched for angels to come through 
My window like the soft- winged air; 

I've kept it wide for them,, but you 
Came up the creaking, dusty stair. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 119 

I've thought of Heaven until it seemed 

I almost understood its worth, 
But, oh ! I never thought, or dreamed, 

That God would send it down to earth. 



WHAT SANTA CLAUS BROUGHT 

THEY sat in a row at grandma's, 
Three little dimpled girls; 
Rosy and sweet, from head to feet. 
Bundles of bliss, just right to kiss. 

Tangles of yellow curls, 
The dearest, darlingest, dimpled band 
That ever stepped out of baby land. 

" Oh, my ! " said Dottie Wimple, 
Her wee hands clasped in glee, 
" Such lots an' lots of goodies 

My Santa Glaus bringed me. 
My stockings new, all red an' blue, 
Were podded out, an' just about 
Stretched big enough for grandma's feet. 
From top to toe brim full of sweet." 

" Well, Santa Glaus was better 

To me than anything," 
Said little May in rapture, 

" I never fout he'd bring 
A doll 'at cries an' shuts its eyes. 
Now, Bettie Bet, what did you get? 
Your Santa Glaus is poor I know, 
'Gause papa told my mamma so." 

"My Santa Glaus," cried Bettie, 

" Is richer'n any other. 
He brought the richest present 

To me an' to my mother, 



120 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

It was — oh, you can't guess it, 

A darling little brother. 
He kicks, an' cries, an' shuts his eyes, 
An' he is sweet enough to eat. 
I'd rather have my baby brother 
Than dolls or candy; so had mother." 



THE CHRISTMAS DOLL 

T'LL tell you all about it, Tom, 
^ Because you wasn't here. 
You 'member little Minnie Clair? 

Whose papa died last year. 
She lives with her Aunt Jane, you know, 

But in her aunty's home, 
The happy Christmas mornings 

With their presents never come. 
She never had a dolly, Tom, 

In all her life before, 
Not e'en a little, teenty one. 

And I've got twenty-four. 

And so, when Christmas morning came. 

And all our pretty toys 
Were scattered 'round about the room. 

I whispered to the boys: 
"How sorry little Min must be 

When Christmas morning comes, 
She never gets a single thing, 

Not even sugar plums." 
And Fred looked just as sober then. 

And Dick looked sober too. 
" It's such a shame," said Dick at last, 

" I'll tell you what we'll do. 
There's books and toys a plenty here, 

And sugar plums, and such. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 121 

Suppose we give her some of ours? 

We wouldn't miss it much." 
"All right," said Fred, "here's Noah's ark, 

I'll give her this, you see." 
Then Dick laid out a picture book. 

And then they looked at me. 

I took my newest dolly up. 

The sweetest of them all. 
It seemed as though my heart would break ; 

My tears began to fall 
Upon her lovely yellow hair. 

Oh ! Tom, you cannot know 
How hard it was for me to let 

My precious dolly go. 

But when they sent for little Min, 

And papa gave the book, 
And Noah's ark, she took them with 

A bright and happy look. 
But, oh ! you should have seen her eyes. 

When papa turned about. 
And, taking off its little shawl. 

Handed the dolly out. 
She laid its cheek against her own, 

She kissed it, then she cried; 
And I was just as happy, for 

I'd twenty-four beside. 



FOUR LITTLE GIRLS 

T T7HEN I'm naughty I am Bess; 
^^ Pout my lips and cry. 
No one loves me then, I guess. 
Mamma says, " Oh, my ! 



122 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

What a naughty girl is Bess; 

Wish she'd go away; 
Wish our darling little Beth 

Would come back to stay." 

When I'm Beth I help mamma 

Sweep, and dust the chairs; 
Set the table, carry things 

Up and down the stairs. 
But I'm Bessie when papa 

Takes me on his knee; 
Holds me close, and says that he 

Loves all four of me. 

Sunday I'm Elizabeth, 

In my dress so blue. 
With a feather in my hat, 

And a posy, too; 
Walk so straight beside mamma 

To the church, and then, 
Sit beside her in a box. 

Till the last amen. 



LITTLE BIRD GRAY 

A LITTLE bird came to our home one day, 
-^^ A dear little mother-bird dressed in gray. 
She stood on a limb of the cherry tree. 
And she winked her little black eye at me. 
As much as to say, " Oh ! yes, I have heard 
Of boys before, but a little gray bird 
Will be safe with you, so I'll build," said she, 
" A beautiful nest in this cherry tree. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 123 

"Around by the kitchen door on a mat, 
Asleep in the sun is a big black cat, 
And out by the woodshed, gnawing a bone. 
Is a dreadful dog, they are both your own. 
And here is my nest. Now what will you do? 
Will you help me keep it, little boy blue? 
Will you drive the dog and cat away? 
When they come too near," sang little bird gray. 

" Will you help me ? Will you ? little boy blue." 
The dear little gray bird, what could I do 
But promise? and Towser and Tab must stay 
In the barn till the birds have flown away. 
There are four in the nest, such hungry things. 
With big, yellow mouths and queer little wings. 
Their mother and I work hard as can be, 
To feed those birds in the cherry tree. 



WHERE THEY FOUND HIM 

/^H, where is the royal baby? Have you seen him? 

^^ Do you know? 

There's a panic in the palace as they hurry to and fro; 

There's a throng of troubled faces. Grandma, grandpa, 
hear them call. 

Papa, mamma, aunts and uncles, up the stairs and down 
the hall ; 

In the meadow where the clover calls the busy honey- 
bees, 

By the brook and through the orchard, in and out 
among the trees 

'Neath the rafters where the hay-mow rises in a fra- 
grant dome. 

Oh, where is the royal baby? Where's the little king 
of home? 



124 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Now some modern Mother Hubbard with her glasses 

on her nose, 
Thinks of the old storage cupboard, which she hastens 

to unclose. 
And behold his royal highness, sleeping in that narrow 

place. 
With the sugar-box beside him, and a jam-spot on his 

face. 
From the meadow where the clover fills the air with 

fragrance sweet. 
From the brookside, from the orchard, come the eager, 

gladsome feet, 
And they kiss the merry monarch seated on his rightful 

throne. 
For they've found the royal baby, found the little king 

of home. 



WHAT CURED DOLLY 

T AST night we went to bed, Dolly and I, 

•*-^ But when I waked up it was light, and, oh, my ! 

A queer thing happened while we were asleep. 

The Brownies came into my room, creep, creep; 

And Dolly, who'd been sick the longest spell. 

They took her and cured her and made her well. 

She had a disease of the eyes, poor dear. 

They both dropped in, and it made her look queer. 

Then, one day, when we was up in a tree, 
She fell, and broke both of her arms, oh, me! 
And Towser he shook off her hair beside — 
It hurt her awful and both of us cried. 
Mamma said that Dolly was such a disgrace, 
That she'd buy a new one to take her place; 
But I asked her, if / was sick would she 
Get another child in the place of me? 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 125 

I hugged and I kissed my Dolly, and then 
Mamma said she'd send for the Brownie men. 
And here is my Dolly as good as new. 
Her hair has growed in, and is curly, too; 
Her eyes are both straight, and each little place 
The measles left has gone from her face; 
Her arms are as good as before she fell. 
And it was the Brownies who made her well. 



MAMMA'S HELPERS 

TT THERE have you been little laddie and lassie? 
^^ Shaking the dew from the flow'rs with your feet 
Down where the meadow lies fragrant and grassy. 

Where its green bank and the brook waters meet? 
Jonquil and daffodil, clover and daisy, 

Bloom by the wayside, so easy to get; 
Why do you seek for the little gold cowslip? 

Knee-deep in meadow grass, tangled and wet? 

"We're helping mamma, we sell the green cowslips, 

All the town people are ready to buy. 
With baskets a-swinging, we both go singing. 

For we're mamma's helpers, Bessie and I." 

Working for mamma ! Ah, yes, I should know it, 

Two brighter faces I never have seen, 
Beaming with love in the dew of the morning, 

Dear Httle peddlers with baskets of green. 
What will you do when the summer advances? 

When the sun shines hot on meadow and lawn, 
How will you then earn the pennies for mamma? 

What will you do when the cowslips are gone? 



126 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

" Down in the field are the blackberry patches ; 

We know where to find them, Bessie and I, 
With baskets a-swinging, we'll both go singing, 

For all the town people like blackberry pie." 



CONTENTED TED 

* * \T/ HEN Winter comes, then winter's best 
^^ With snow and skates and sled, 
And furry cap and overcoat 

To keep you warm," said Ted, 
" All snug and warm when cold winds blow," 
Said merry little Ted. 

" But when the pretty posies come. 

The blue, and white and red; 
When birds are singing in the trees. 

Then Spring is best," said Ted, 
" The sunny spring that melts the snow, 

And brings the flow'rs," said Ted. 

"And Summer's best in berry time, 

When my big brother Fred 
And I go fishing in the brook. 

On grandpa's farm," said Ted. 
" Right where the willows make a nook 

For fish to bite," said Ted. 



"When Jack Frost opens chestnut burrs. 
And leaves turn brown and red; 

When grapes are ripe and apples too. 
Then Auturnn's best," said Ted, 

" For that is when Thanksgiving comes 
At grandma's house," said Ted. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 127 

"And which of all do I like best? " 

He raised his yellow head, 
" Why, don't you see it's just the time 

I'm living in," said Ted. 
" The best of all is just the time 

I'm living in," said Ted. 



FEBRUARY IN CALIFORNIA 

'TV ID you hear them stirring before they came? 
^^ As they whispered low together. 
Deep in their mother's warm, brown breast, 
All through the rainy weather. 

Did you hear their laughter, the pretty things ? 

As they talked their secret over, 
And buzzed like a swarm of honey-bees. 

Turned loose in a field of clover. 

And then they revealed it, the glad surprise 

Of these little merry makers. 
And spread a carpet of rain-bow dyes 

Down over a thousand acres. 

The carpet is yellow and blue and pink, 

Woven in many a pattern, 
There are squares, and diamonds and circling belts, 

Like the yellow belts of Saturn. 

There are fields of gold-whole poppy fields — 

Oh, the land is color crazy; 
Purple, and yellow and lavender. 

Under the warm sky hazy. 

Dashes of color, and shouts of glee. 

All in the winter weather. 
For the flow'rs of earth and the human flow'rs 

Are out on the hills together. 



128 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 



MUD PIES 

T ITTLE boy in round-a-bout, 
'*-' Knickerbockers, hat without 
Band or rim-piece. Sturdy man, 
Earnest eyes and face of tan. 
Little girl upon whose cheek 
Dimples play at hide-and-seek. 
See them work with busy hands 
Making mud pies in the sands. 

Cups of water, quick as thought. 
From the shady well are brought. 
Leaves for dishes — cherries red — 
Sometimes stones are used instead. 
Rolling out the crust so thin. 
Putting stones and cherries in. 
Dirt bespattered dress and hands, 
Making mud pies in the sands. 

On the well-curb white as snow, 
Little pies all in a row. 
Dented round by dimpled thumb, 
Stand there baking in the sun. 
Pumpkin, mince or apple pie ! 
Here's your choice, now who will buy ? 
But the bakers, bless their eyes ! 
They are eating mother's pies. 



WHEN I AM A MAN 

1st boy — I'm going to be a farmer, and sow the field 
with grain. 
And then I'll watch it grow and grow in sun- 
shine and in rain. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 129 

I'll raise the very nicest wheat that anybody 

can, 
For I'm going to be a farmer when I get to 

be a man. 

Class — Oh, jolly, jolly farmer when the harvest 
time is through, 
We'll come from all the country round and 
buy our wheat of you. 

2nd boy — I'm going to be a merchant and sell my 

goods to all. 
I'll have thin cloths for summer time and 

woolen cloths for fall, 
I'm going to give good measure and do the 

best I can. 
For I'm going to be a merchant when I get 

to be a man. 

Class — Oh, when we go a-shopping as the people 
always do, 
Because you give good measure we will buy 
our clothes of you. 

3rd boy — I'm going to be a doctor, and when a body's 

ill 
I'll give a sugar powder and a little sugar 

pill. 
I've seen our doctor do it, and I'm very sure 

I can. 
Oh, I'm going to be a doctor when I get to 

be a man. 

Class — We'll remember all you tell us about the 
sugar pill. 
You may be sure, dear doctor, we will send 
for you when ill. 



[30 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

TWO BENS 

npHEY sat out under the apple tree, 
"■- Two little, dear little men. 
Discussing the wondrous truths of life; 

Grandpa and five-year-old Ben. 
One had the wisdom of ripened years; 

The knowledge of men and books. 
The other, fresh from the hand of God, 

Had knowledge of birds and brooks. 

" ril tell you about the birds, my dear, 

How the robin and the wren — " 
" I know, they nest in the apple tree. 

And live on the worms," said Ben. 
" And the honey-bees that give us sweet. 

What do you know of them ? " 
" They find the honey in posy cups. 

And that is the how," said Ben. 

" And the little downy chicks, my dear, 

That follow the mother hen ? " 
" She hatched them out of the eggs she laid 

In the hay-mow nest," said Ben. 
" The flowers they cuddle, cuddle down 

When the winter comes, and then 
God covers them up to keep them warm, 

Till Spring gets back," said Ben. 

" Alas, and alack ! he knows it all. 

My three score years and ten 
Just balance the scales of life with five," 

Sighed dear old grandfather Ben. 
A head of silver and one of gold. 

Dreaming of books and toys. 
Nodded together and then they slept, 

Two little, dear little boys. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 131 

A KISS FOR MAMMA 

npHE car was all ready, the bird-man saying 
-■■ A few last words ere he sailed away 
To the far, blue sky where the sunbeams straying 

Made perfect the golden summer day; 
While thousands of people were gathering nigh. 
To wish him good journey, and bid him good-bye. 

A wee little maid, her sunny hair falling 
Back from her beautiful childish brow, 

Escaped from her nurse, her baby voice calling: 
" O, p'ease, Mister Man, may I go now ? 

For I wants to go up wiv you in 'e sky. 

To find my own mamma an' tiss 'er good-bye." 

He kissed the fair face while tear-drops were shining 

On many a cheek hardened by care; 
He unclasped the arms round his neck entwining, 

And sailed from th' little one standing there; 
But a sweet voice arose to him, clear and free, 
" Tell mamma I's good girl, an' tiss 'er for me." 



MAMMA'S BREAD-WINNERS 

A CROSS the green meadow, beyond the green glen, 
"^ Come two little women and two little men; 
The youngest is five, and the oldest is ten. 

Eyes brim-full of mischief has each little man, 

Such merry round faces all coated with tan. 

And brave hearts whose motto is always, " I can." 

The bluest of blue in the bright summer skies 
Is never so blue as the four laughing eyes 
Of those little women, so loving and wise. 



/ 



132 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Across the green meadows, where cool breezes blow, 
In a place that only these little ones know. 
The largest and sweetest of blackberries grow. 

With pails, when the morning smiles rosy and red. 
Come Annie and Fannie and Tommy and Ted; 
For mamma is ill, and dear papa is dead. 

Beside the green meadow a white village lies. 
Close-cuddled and cozy, beneath the blue skies; 
And all the dear people like blackberry pies. 

Their pails are soon emptied of berries, and then 
Are filled with brown bundles, and two little men 
Have " chinks " in their pockets when crossing the glen. 



TWO LITTLE BEGGARS 

T 7 P through th' valley of babyland two 
^ Little beggars have come to town. 
The eyes of one are the brightest blue. 
The eyes of the other are brown. 

They beg all day for " a story, please," 
These two little, dear little men; 

They crowd my side and climb to my knees. 
With faces uplifted, and then: 

"Tell us a story about Jack Frost; 

'Bout the snow that came with a whirl 
That day when the kitty-cat was lost. 

When mamma was your little girl. 

" Jack and his bean ; the three little bears. 
And one that you never have told; 

Tell us another, and then one other," 
Cry these little beggars so bold. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 133 

They beg all day — oh, what shall I do ? 

With beggars that climb to my knees, 
And beg for stories the whole day through; 

Such dear little beggars as these. 



PUTTING THE FLOWERS TO BED 

**/^OME little children, come go to bed," 

^ Dear mother Nature is calling. 
" For the maple leaves are turning red ; 

They are turning red, and falling. 
And now they are coming, one by one, 

Each dear little wayside posy. 
They danced all day in the summer sun, 

When the hours were long and rosy. 

They all were dressed in their very best, 

When the springtime skies were mellow, 
There were velvet gowns in reds and browns ; 

There were silks in blue and yellow. 
Oh ! what a rustle, oh ! what a mess. 

Oh ! what a clatter and racket, 
For every lass has torn her dress, 

And every lad his jacket. 

Now their mother is calling them home: 

" Oh ! come Sweet William, come Daisy ; 
Come Phlox, Verbena and Goldenrod, 

Dear me, are the children crazy ! " 
And now she cuddles and tucks them down, 

W^ith soft caresses and kissing. 
She clasps them close in her warm arms brown. 

And never a child is missing. 



134 THE POETICAL WQRKS OF 

A SONG OF THE SCHOOLROOM 

OING a song of the schoolroom, 
^ Where the cares of life begin; 
Of books and slates and curly pates; 

Of its silence; of its din; 
Of lessons learned; of merits earned; 

Of its sweet good-will and strife, 
Of enemies met and conquered 

On this battle field of life. 

Sing a song of the schoolroom. 

With its happy girls and boys. 
Of faces sweet; of restless feet; 

Of its trials and its joys. 
Where golden seeds of kindly deeds, 

And noblest aims are rife. 
Oh, sing a song of the schoolroom, 

And the seeding place of life. 



THE DRINK OF GOD 

THE drink that comes from heaven 
Is the drink for you and me. 
It flashes in the river, 

And it sparkles in the sea; 

The birds and blossoms drink it. 

And why not you and me? 

The birds are never tipsy; 

They drink the drink of God 
Each pretty bright-faced Gipsy, 

Flower children of the sod, 
In caps of gold and scarlet, 

Preach us sermons as we pass; 
Their brains are never muddled 

By the poison in the glass. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 135 

THE DISOBEDIENT DOLL 

T'LL have to punish youi, Dolly, 

-'• You've disobeyed me again, 

You stay'd out doors with the fairies, 

Naughty Elizabeth Jane. 
You played out there in the moonlight, 

And tore your prettiest dress; 
But when it was dark and lonesome, 

Then you was afraid, I guess. 

I'll have to punish you awful, 

I've such a trial in you. 
To think you'd stay with the fairies 

The whole of the long night through. 
The queen, was she pretty? Tell me 

All about each little elf. 
Oh, yes, I must whip you, but, Dolly, 

I'd like to stay out myself. 

You don't look real happy, Dolly, 

Were the fairies bad to you? 
They made you stay on the doorstep 

The whole of the long night through? 
They pulled your hair, and they slapped you ? 

They were rude to you, and rough? 
Come here to your mamma, Dolly, 

I think you've been punished enough. 



INDIAN LULLABY 

"O OCK-A-BY, baby, your cradle is swinging 
■*^ On a low branch of the sycamore tree. 
Rock-a-by, baby, the mocking-bird singing, 
Sings you to sleep in the sycamore tree. 

Rock-a-by, rock-a-by, little one sleep. 



136 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 

Blue is the sky with the moon sailing through it. 

Father's a hunter, he hunts the wild deer, 
Brother is riding his Indian pony. 

Mother is watching the camp kettle near. 

Rock-a-by, rock-a-by, little one sleep. 



Rock-a-by, rock-a-by, little brown baby, 
Tied to a branch of the sycamore tree. 

One of these days you will be a brave hunter. 
Little brown baby so happy and free. 

Rock-a-by, rock-a-by, little one sleep. 



A LULLABY SONG 

■p\ROOP little coverHds over the blue; 

■■-^ Little white coverlids fringed with gold ; 

Mother voice singing you, 

Mother arms swinging you 
Mother love clasping you, fold on fold. 



Rest little golden-head, on mother's breast, 
She will watch over you while you sleep; 

Dream of her loving eyes ; 

Dream of the starry skies, 
Mother is guarding you while you sleep. 

Lullaby, lullaby, little one sleep, 

Sunlight and daylight fade in the west; 

Mother is holding you, 

Mother is folding you 
Safe in the heart of her while you rest. 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 137 

THE WHITE PARADE 

TT ARK ! grandfather's clock is striking eight. 
■■■■■• And the books and toys are laid 
Away for the night. 'Tis getting late. 

'Tis time for the white parade. 
Now they are coming, the bare, pink feet ; 

An army all dressed in white; 
A sleepy army with kisses sweet; 

" Good-night, dear papa, good-night." 

Come little soldiers, 'tis time to march. 

The captain follows her band 
Through the parlor and under the arch, 

Up stairs into sleepy-land. 
Baby is perched on his throne of love, 

A gold-headed king in white. 
The army shouts from the hall above: 

'' Good-night, dear papa, good-night." 

And now a silence is in the room 

Where the little cots are laid, 
As through the window the silver moon 

Smiles down on the white parade 
Kneeling a moment at mamma's feet, 

Each little form in white, 
Then clasping her close with round arms sweet, 

" Good-night, dear mamma, good-night." 



liiff:! 



